


The Truth About Death

by Avalon_Sunset



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A bit of suspense, Action/Adventure, But I'm not very good at it, But basically a happy ending, COMMENTS WILL CONTAIN SPOILERS!, Depending on how you define happy, F/M, M/M, Romance, Some angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-05-15 07:38:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 116,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5777146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avalon_Sunset/pseuds/Avalon_Sunset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Death sends Hermione back to 1938, he leaves many questions unanswered. How do you cope when everything you know has been taken away? Join Hermione on a journey from bitterness to acceptance – and eventually, discover the truth about Death. [Canon-compliant until DH forest scene].</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue 1: Godric Gryffindor

A/N: Hello! Thanks for clicking onto this story and I hope I can persuade you to join me for the ride. It's going to be pretty long (how long will be up to you to a certain extent), the plot is mapped out all the way to the end and updates should be about weekly. I've had the idea for this story in my head for a while, and now have the time to write it down. It's my aim to keep characters true to canon, though they will of course be changing over the longer term due to experiencing non-canon events. Rating is for much later chapters.

It would be wonderful if you could spare a few seconds of your time to review, since I very much want to improve.

 

~oOo~

 

It had been a long time since Death had derived any particular enjoyment from his job. Oh, certainly, in the past he had appreciated it all – the murders, suicides, mercy killings, accidents, diseases - quick deaths, slow deaths, tragic deaths, ironic deaths; from the laboured wrenching of the reluctant soul to the peaceful, contemplative slide away from consciousness. Some came gladly, others… not. He had always found it satisfying to guess which souls would linger as ghosts, too tied to the Earth or too scared to journey on with him. The problem, in the end, was the repetition of it all. The concerns of the dying were so eternally predictable, and often so irrelevant, given Death's knowledge of what lay beyond.

Sometimes Death would repeatedly encounter the same living soul as he harvested others, and sometimes they evaded him for longer than a human lifespan would deem polite – but there was never any question. He got them all in the end. Paracelsus, Agrippa, Peverell, Flamel. Dumbledore. Even the excitement of scoring a big name was starting to wane.

As such, one still morning in early May, Death was rather surprised to find himself eager again. He had arrived in a clearing filled with robed, masked figures and that half-giant. It had already been a busy night, full of magical souls to transport to the other side. So much power wasted…

There was no time to dwell on matters, for he was about to gain a very famous soul. This would really liven up his conversation with the Elders for a while! Smiling, Death withdrew a chocolate frog from somewhere beneath his cloak ( _Godric Gryffindor – how maddeningly appropriate_ ) and settled himself against a tree trunk. Magic was humming through the clearing, a mess of coloured signatures visible only to him, but all that background static paled in comparison to  _it._  How he loved to feel  _it's_ magic, his own magic, still strong after all these years. What a stroke of genius it had been, that Elder Wand.

The carrier of the wand was speaking to his followers, but Death was not listening. He was lost in a memory of other men, another century, the same well-worn path of recollection he travelled every time he met that object. It had been gloriously often, until more recently, but things had again changed. How many times in the last weeks had he collected this wand's victims? As his memory caught up to the present, he polished off the last of his confectionary, and noticed  _them_.

The boy must have got close while he was daydreaming, for suddenly his magical senses were in overload. The wand became insignificant, unimportant, inconsequential.  _The Stone_. And what was that, so foreign and yet so familiar?  _The Cloak_! Oh, the waves of a barely-remembered emotion crashed over him, making it difficult to breathe.  _His cloak was back_. The weight of the long years, so oppressive yesterday, was suddenly lifted, and he was drifting away on the phantom wind summoned by the glorious power of his three creations. They were so close together now. Closer than they had been since that night. It had been his only obsession for so long, finding that stupid cloak, and now it had wandered right up to him while he wasn't even paying attention. He leaned forward, a new sort of fear and interest gripping him as he waited for the scene before him to unfold, Gryffindor's crumpled card forgotten in hand.

Behind the boy, another movement caught his eye: a hand, scrabbling among the leaf litter, closing around a small object. The owner of the hand stood up rapidly and shoved the object into a pocket, but he didn't need to see it to know what it was.  _The stone_. Death had no time to consider the new arrival further, for a voice had started speaking.

"Harry Potter."

The stage was set, the thick silence pierced by the words spoken despite their softness. Death wondered how the boy's duelling was. He hadn't seen a truly great show since Dumbledore and Grindelwald, even if neither of them had had the decency to die in it. Surely that unfortunate circumstance was not likely to repeat itself.

Potter was spared any response he might have made, since the voice spoke again.

"You brought company, Harry. How touching. And here I was thinking you'd have the  _Gryffindor_ courage to come alone."

The tone was light, mocking, and ended with cold laughter as he observed the boy whip around and notice the girl standing behind his right side.

"Ah, of course," continued the voice, "You didn't  _know_." There was a pause, and Death could sense the uncertainty of the robed figures as they waited for their leader's next move. The Potter boy turned back to face his adversaries and was doing an admirable job of hiding his fear.  _Godric, you would be proud._

"I'm afraid I don't like uninvited guests, Harry." There was the barest twitch of the Elder Wand and the familiar flash of green light. Death, who had been watching the speaker, was surprised when the light was stopped by a direct hit with another the same.

To every observer it was painfully obvious that the boy had not meant to cast the spell. Furthermore, it was clear that having cast it, he was determined to lose.  _This is an interesting twist_. Death felt the Elder wand's magic swirl and shift, deciding its allegiance. To the boy's horror, his spell was accelerating, both wizards now desperate to break the connection. It was too late.

The green light hit its mark as a final, primal sound of disbelief and rage emanated from the snakelike wizard. Death watched in dismay as the fractured soul skittered away before he could reach it. Again.

The robed figures were on their feet before the body had even fallen to the floor. So many things started happening at once, and in the panic and confusion nobody noticed the woman raise her wand until the scream had already passed her lips –

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

The shocked expression frozen onto the girl's features indicated that she had not seen the spell until it was far too late. The boy staggered and, gasping, fell to the ground beside the body, as the restrained half-giant let out a wordless yell.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

Potter did not try to dodge the curse, if indeed he had even registered its existence. The green light threw his body over onto the girl's in a cruel facsimile of sleeping lovers. A blanket of stunned silence fell once more over the scene, interrupted only by the giant's wracking sobs.  _Was this how it was all to end?_  Death sensed his precious objects lying on the ground, one with each body, now ownerless.  _This is all wrong_. The wheels were already turning in his mind as he moved forward, stooping to collect the fallen souls. Soundlessly, instantly, he left the oppressive clearing. There was work to be done.

 

~oOo~

 

Hermione slipped away from the Great Hall, no clear plan in mind. Some combination of the stress and the chronic tiredness was making her mind heavy and out-of-focus, until she could no longer clearly recall the motivation behind her own actions. Fred. That was all she could remember. So many Weasleys, so much crushing grief; she had to get away before she suffocated under it. She had felt like an outsider in the moment, unable to mourn like the others because of the enormity of the task still set before them. Adrenaline had been charging its way around her body for hours and sitting down was unthinkable, akin to giving up.

With the sword of Gryffindor gone, the basilisk fangs she carried were the only way to destroy the snake, weren't they? If she did not find that snake, it would all be for nothing. Ron could not help her and Harry had disappeared, so it was left to her. In the doorway she moved aside to admit someone coming in the other direction; it turned out to be Oliver Wood carrying a body. Colin. Oliver gave her a desperate look as she stumbled onwards in shock.  _He expects me to fix this. They all do._

It was a bizarre comfort to Hermione, in that bleakest moment, that she would likely die if she did nothing. Die like Fred, Colin, Remus and Tonks. The thought made her task seem so much simpler – it became easy to walk into the unknown danger ahead, to try to protect Ron and the others, because there was no alternative. Her steps quickened across the entrance hall and she did not look back.

Once outside, her eye was drawn to the movement of a person appearing from the air. Quite apart from the unique method of concealment, she would recognise that figure anywhere.  _Harry._  Where was he going? She paused, watching him speak with Neville but too far away to hear the words. Harry disappeared again and in that moment she realised his destination, why he needed to go unseen, why he had not told her.  _Are you giving up, Harry? Do you believe it will save us?_  In the panic of the moment, she could find no other possible motivation. All the times Harry had been determined to go it alone came rushing back to her, all the times he had been determined to protect people.

Hermione was too far away to look for the telltale signs of Harry's movement; the crushed blades of grass or small rustling noises. Instead, she walked blindly towards the forest, the dementors' chill descending as she got closer. Shivering, she pulled out her wand and tried to focus. Happy thoughts were so hard to bring to mind now. From the depths, she willed the familiar memory forward; the safe cosiness of the Gryffindor common room, a January evening, snowflakes outside and the fire within. They had been the last three awake – it was approaching midnight, but Ron had instigated an earnest discussion about the Chudley Cannons' seeker and hence had taken far longer to beat Harry at chess than usual. She had been sat with them, half listening, half reading. She remembered the book, the weight and feel of it;  _New Theory of Numerology_. Ron had evidently said something comical, because suddenly the sound of Harry's wonderful, rare laughter was washing over her. She grasped onto the moment desperately.

"Expecto Patronum!"

Relief flooded her as the silver otter erupted from her wand and bounded on ahead. She hurried forward, aware of how long it had taken her to summon the patronus. Harry could only be ahead of her, for he had never had as much trouble with that spell.

Hermione followed the otter, through lack of any other direction. The forest was dense here, the moonlight entirely blocked. The urge to utter  _Lumos_  was strong but somehow she did not want to break the darkness, continuing by the silvery patronus-light alone. Small rustling and scurrying sounds entering her sensitised ears sent her adrenaline level higher and higher. She began to notice thick cobwebs among the branches –  _why did he have to wait **here** of all places?_

Ten or twenty paces in front of her, Harry threw off the cloak. Startled, her concentration was broken and the silver otter flickered and vanished. She now noticed firelight somewhere in the distance and continued forward, clambering awkwardly over tree roots in the dark. Her mouth was open as if to call out but the words would not come, merely panicked gasping breaths. They were arriving at a break in the trees, presumably where the Death Eaters were waiting. Harry had pushed the cloak under his outer robe and she noticed something small drop from his open hand. Training her eyes on that spot, she advanced just as her friend stepped fully into the clearing.

Her mind was screaming at her to look around, assess the situation, help Harry – but her body seemed to be acting of its own accord. Something drew her to the object on the ground, and as her fingers touched it, she felt a surge of magic. Snapping out of the trance, she stood up abruptly and realised several things almost simultaneously.

The first was that she held the resurrection stone. There could be no doubt about it. How had Harry -?

The second, which brought the first to a crashing halt, was that she was stood in the presence of Voldemort. She knew before even laying eyes on him; power was in the very air. Harry had said something similar about Dumbledore once. It was a different type and level of magic than was created by wands and spells alone.

The third, which became terrifyingly evident as she raised her eyes to survey the scene, was that he had already noticed her. For a second frozen in time, Hermione studied those snakelike features, the posture, and the hand holding the wand. The corners of the mouth began to suggest a smile, and she could only stay rooted to the spot as the voice began to speak.

"Harry Potter."

Voldemort was still speaking but she could not process it. Her eyes darted around the clearing, taking in the Death Eaters and poor Hagrid, the campfire and the snake in the glittering cage. Finally she looked to Harry, and saw the shock and terror on his face as he noticed her. Her worst suspicion was realised, for Harry did not even have his wand out.

" _Wand_ ," she hissed at him, and he obeyed her perhaps from instinct or habit rather than from desire to comply. He bravely turned back to face Voldemort, and she directed her scattered attention to the last horcrux. There were so many Death Eaters between her and the snake, but perhaps if she-

"I'm afraid I don't like uninvited guests, Harry."

The two movements were so quick that Hermione could barely tell who cast first. Harry must have been on edge, reacting on instinct, for when she glanced at his face she could tell he had not meant for the spells to connect. He had intercepted the spell meant for her, before she had even seen it coming, and it was then that she fully realised her own tiredness and how slow her reactions had become.

For a reason she did not have long to consider - as Harry's spell raced toward Voldemort - Harry was desperate to break the connection.  _What is it that I don't understand, Harry? What do I not know?_  There was no time to think, to deduce the best course of action. Voldemort's body was falling to the floor, Harry's expression panic-stricken and confused.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

A bolt of green light, and the world fell away.

 

~oOo~

 

 


	2. Prologue II: Herpo the Foul

 

A/N:  Here is the second - and last - part of the prologue, in which I hope you’ll begin to see where I’m driving at with this…

 

~oOo~

 

She felt _good_. That was really the only way to describe it. It was as if the pathways of her brain had been rapidly unclogged and the thoughts were now flowing through at a completely unprecedented rate. Free from fatigue, free from the feedback of her limbs, free from respiring and digesting, there was so much computing power left for other tasks.

Somehow, despite having no eyes, she was able to perceive her new surroundings. It was unequivocally the waiting room at her parents’ surgery - complete with the rack of old _Good Housekeeping_ and _What Car?_ magazines and a dental floss advert on the wall behind the reception desk. Looking more closely, the text on the magazines was blurred out and she vaguely remembered her Mum telling her about having new chairs delivered last summer. _This is in my imagination, then. Of course._ She tried the door to the treatment room corridor, then the door to the outside, and was entirely unsurprised to find that neither would budge.

Since nothing appeared to be happening in the ‘present’, Hermione was left to consider recent events. Harry had plainly known something that she had not, and now that her mind was working clearly it was obvious that he had uncovered information in Snape’s memories. Something that made him walk into that clearing with no attempt to defend himself, knowing Voldemort would kill him.

Harry was not suicidal, and neither was he stupid. _After eliminating the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._ The only explanation was that Harry was convinced of the necessity of his death, and at the hands of Voldemort specifically. Why? The answer provided itself to her, as it had done many times before, but this time the nightmare was real. _The parseltongue, the visions… a soul fragment, then. Neither can live while the other survives…_ And then the full reality hit her.

It was _her_ presence that had caused Voldemort to be killed at the wrong moment. Soul fragments remained. History was going to repeat itself, but this time, Voldemort would know everywhere he went wrong – from the hiding places of the horcruxes to the allegiance of the Elder Wand. And what had happened to Harry after she died, with Bellatrix in a murderous rage not twenty yards away? The likelihood, then, was that the world would not have Harry Potter to help them when Voldemort rose next time.

She might have had no eyes, but it made no difference – on the pseudo-familiar laminate flooring, in a purgatory of some imaginary dimension – Hermione Granger broke down and cried.

 

~oOo~

 

A flick of his hand and the heavy iron bolts slid aside, squealing as harshly as their great age would imply. There always seemed to be some kind of renovation going on here, and perhaps the front door ought to be the next project.

Inside the hefty door, a small anteroom served as a place for hanging cloaks. Death shrugged out of his and hung it on the end of a row of almost identical ones. Once upon a time he had tried a little variety – greens, blues, or subtle patterns – but nothing had stuck. It turned out the living had rather a set idea of his professional apparel, and he wasn’t one to deny them a bit of theatre.

Beyond the line of black cloaks, the anteroom opened into the main hall where a fire was already blazing in the giant grate. His place at the long table was set with silverware and the smell of cooking was wafting from the direction of the kitchen. The grandfather clock (a concession to modern technology) read 6.02pm – he always left home at 8 and returned at 6, as if the routine would make the lifestyle somewhat normal. Of course, the time taken to harvest the day’s souls was much longer than those ten hours. It was hard to notice as he flitted across the continents, rarely more than a few seconds in each place, appearing at just the moment he was required.

The notion of time meant very little to Death. Perhaps it was his own immortality, or perhaps it was the nature of his monotonous work, but he found he rarely considered the chronology of the events he witnessed. Consequently, his memory was filled with disconnected snapshots. It was surprisingly easy to forget that not everybody had the ability (let alone the constant need) to travel as freely through time as through space. Surprisingly easy to forget the linear way the living viewed their lives; a journey facing permanently in one direction, in which the chain of cause and effect ran irrevocably from the past to the future and not the other way around.

What had caused the events he had witnessed earlier today? Death remembered the Potter boy – of course – he had been rather expecting to take his soul that Halloween night more than sixteen years ago. More recently, he had become someone he had seen rather a lot of; the incident with the mirror of Erised, in the graveyard at Little Hangleton, in the Department of Mysteries, on top of the Astronomy tower, at Malfoy Manor, on a beach, at Gringott’s, in the Room of Requirement, in the Shrieking Shack… Now he came to think of it, the boy had encountered him more times before the age of eighteen than most people managed in a century.

The story of the forest clearing started long before the story of Potter, than much was obvious. When had he first encountered the Riddle boy? Death flicked past hundreds of memories, the dark-haired man getting younger as the years retreated. There had been so many murders, muggle and wizard alike. Suddenly the answer came to him, and he felt immediately foolish – was he going senile? The first time he had met the boy was in an orphanage, a damp and dirty room filled with blood and sweat and towels and bed sheets. Not an hour after his birth.

The boy had been set on a path of bitterness and destructive ambition since he had first drawn breath. A child of extraordinary magic from the beginning, quite unlike his immediate predecessors. How very _amusing_ that it should arise from a muggle union. If Tom’s father had not been a muggle, how different would he have been? What if he had grown up with his family and not in the orphanage? What if he had had a contemporary as powerful as him?

It must have been something about seeing the Cloak again that had sent his mind spiralling back along sequences of events in quite such an uncharacteristic way. _What if **this** , then, what if **that**?_ He was overcome with a rush of excitement, of power, as he considered the endless possibilities.

It had never seriously occurred to Death to meddle in the affairs of the living. The vast majority of it was of no concern to him, and anyway, he viewed himself primarily as a spectator. However, recent events had just seemed too wrong. The chance to modify the outcome to suit him better was far too tempting, once he had begun to entertain the idea of it. And who could possibly mind? Nobody would even know – well, almost nobody.

He was interrupted from his wild imaginings by a steaming bowl levitating past his chest. It came to land on his silver place setting, where a tiny hand was just placing a basket of bread. Only the tips of the ears were visible above the tabletop, but it was enough for Death to recognise his best kitchen-elf.

“Ah! Nifty. On time as always. That smells delicious.” The grandfather clock made a small chime as the hand reached 6.30, and the elf bowed deeply.

“Nifty is proud to serve the master,” he said. Death settled himself in the heavy chair and arranged the napkin on his lap. “Tonight we is having stew of venison and roots, with bread that Flip is making this morning.”

Nifty was wearing a proud expression, by which Death presumed that the young elf Flip was making good progress with his training.

“Excellent. My compliments to both of you.” It had obviously been the right thing to say, for the old elf was beaming.

“Will master be requiring anything else?”

“No thank you, Nifty. You go and enjoy your dinner.” Nifty bowed again before bouncing away through the archway to the kitchens.

The stew tasted as good as it smelled, so it was not long until he had emptied the bowl. Good food was something that he never tired of, though he did tend to go through phases of preferring one taste or another. _That reminds me._

Leaving the empty bowl and basket on the table, Death returned to the anteroom and sifted through his cloak’s inside pocket. Avoiding the pile of small change that had accumulated there, he withdrew his quarry: the crumpled card of Gryffindor, and an unopened box.

Another round archway – opposite the one through which Nifty had left – led to a sitting room of sorts, and it was here that Death was in the habit of retiring for the evening. Three of the walls were hung with tapestries but the forth had been recently cleared to accommodate his new hobby. He was enjoying this one, for not only did he have a rather sweet tooth, but it often brought back memories he had long forgotten. He straightened out today’s card and examined the wall.

“Godric, Godric… Ah yes, here, next to… _Glenda_. What _illustrious_ company. Still, you were always one for the ladies, eh?” The forty or so cards shuffled themselves about until there was a space between Glenda Chittock and Gondoline Oliphant. Gryffindor’s image smiled rather smugly up at him as he placed the card next to its new neighbours.

Seating himself in the chair by the fire, he opened the second of the boxes he had bought today. It was supposed to be for tomorrow, but it had been a rather trying afternoon, and the stew had given him an appetite. The frog made a valiant hop onto the arm of the chair before he caught it deftly. _Chocolate._ It had become somewhat of a weakness of his, for the last hundred years at least. Every morsel was savoured before he even glanced into the box for the accompanying card.

_Herpo the Foul was a Dark wizard living in ancient Greece. A Parselmouth, Herpo is best known for being the first wizard to hatch a basilisk. He is also credited with the invention of many dark curses and hexes which are now outlawed._

Death chuckled to himself. Obviously they couldn’t mention the whole horcrux debacle on confectionary sold to children. As if that was the way to achieve immortality! It was beyond ludicrous! _Honestly, if you want to stay on Earth that much, just be a ghost. It’s a lot better than a disembodied soul fragment._ It had all been rather embarrassing for Herpo when he finally repented and so passed on – the entire council of Elders had been on the floor from laughing at him. Most of his achievements had rather slipped under the radar after that.

Once Herpo was in his rightful place (the other side of Glenda, in fact) he poured himself a measure of firewhisky from a decanter on the sideboard and returned to his chair. The souls of Potter and of the girl were still waiting for him, so he would have to go back out tonight, but first he needed to finalise the plan. His brow furrowed as he commiserated the amount of effort he now had to use in order to understand the living and their motivations.

The soul of Riddle was tattered beyond recognition, making Herpo look positively sensible by comparison. The fragments Death had collected were being held in wait for the rest, and it now looked like being a long time. _He could have been so much more._

From even the most cursory glance at the Potter boy it was clear that prophecy alone had singled him out. His soul – the part that was uniquely his – was startling only for its ordinariness. Without the fragment, Potter would lack any magical empathy with Riddle. In fact, the boy had never displayed any significant ambition for magical ability at all. At this point, the only useful thing to do would be to send the boy on, where he would be reunited with his family. _This outcome will be ensured via another route._

Yes, another route indeed – that was where the third soul came in. What a stroke of luck that such a soul had been delivered to him right in that moment. Death considered what he would say to the girl, and what arrangements he would need to make. He needed to act fast, before the Elders could try to stop him.

Sweeping back through the hall and into the anteroom, he grabbed his cloak from the hook and shoved open the door. The evening breeze was rustling a gentle wave through the barley field opposite, and he let the calming movement empty his mind enough to focus on his destination.

 

~oOo~

 

She had no way of measuring how long she had been in the room, but it seemed an age to her racing mind. The calm that had come over her immediately following her arrival had been gradually replaced with restlessness until she wanted to scream and beat the walls from desperation.

With no warning, a hooded figure appeared in the doorway and she inadvertently let out a squeak of surprise. This, in itself, surprised her as she did not currently have a mouth; being disembodied would evidently take some getting used to.

The figure had made no further move, but she could sense its amusement.

“Who are you?” she asked. The tone had been intended to display a casual disinterest, but instead came out rather abruptly.

“ _Honestly_ ,” began the voice – which was male – “Do they not teach any manners these days?”

The question was clearly rhetorical, and Hermione thought better of opening her mouth in response. The man was now looking around the room, though his expression was hidden in the shadow of the deep hood.

“Interesting...” he mused, apparently only to himself. “At least one muggle parent, I presume, given the décor.”

Hermione was too confused to form a cutting remark about the insignificance of one’s heritage, so she merely nodded.

“I am Death, of course.”

There was not much to say to that, since upon reflection it had been rather obvious all along, so she just nodded again. Death exhaled a sigh of weary exasperation.

“It is customary for me to offer magical souls the chance to return, or to go on.” His tone betrayed no hint of his opinion on the matter. She considered the words for a minute.

“Are you asking if I want to become a ghost?”

There was a soft chuckle from somewhere beneath the hood.

“Ordinarily, yes.”

There was a pause in which she assumed he would elaborate, but he did not.

“Then what do you mean?” As an afterthought, she added, “Sir.” Another pause was growing uncomfortably long before he spoke again.

“Seventeen years it’s been, since I first glimpsed the soul of Tom Riddle.”

This remark did not appear to have any relevance on its own, so she had no option but to wait for him to continue.

“Five years ago, I collected a fragment. I waited patiently for the rest to follow, and I have recently been… rewarded. But now the soul is wandering again, and my patience wears thin.”

Hermione had not really considered that her horcrux hunting failure would have upset Death, of all people. Several responses crossed her mind but none seemed appropriate.

“It matters not,” he went on, as if he could hear her internal monologue, “it can be fixed.”

“H-how’s that?” It was hard not to sound hopeful. Death was dangling the proverbial carrot, and they both knew it.

“If Tom Riddle had never made a horcrux, it would never have fallen to your friend to destroy it.”

The logic was infallible, but the relevance of the statement once again evaded her.

“I am sending you back.”

At once her mind was racing, struggling to form the appropriate questions.

“We will meet again, Hermione Granger.”

Panic gripped her; once again the world was dissolving.

 

~oOo~

 


	3. Chapter I: Armando Dippet

 

~oOo~

 

The ground beneath her was spongy, and also damp, judging by the cold feeling seeping through to her back. She opened her eyes with difficulty and fought past the giant stabbing headache to observe her environment.  _Where am I?_

As the location registered, she jumped to her feet – it was the clearing in the forbidden forest. Desperately she looked to the left and right, up and down, scanning for movement. For better or worse, only a squirrel high up in the branches caught her eye. There was no sound but for the background rustling of leaves and the twittering of various birds.

With her immediate survival guaranteed, Hermione began to pat her pockets in search of her wand – any wand, in fact. The search was fruitless, but did reveal that she was wearing unfamiliar clothes. Something was terribly wrong, but it was hard to put her finger on exactly what. An expression of concentration came over her face as she looked down at herself, her front teeth worrying her bottom lip out of old habit.

_Oh. My. God._

Hermione's hand flew to her face and she patted her teeth with morbid fascination. They were definitely protruding, like they used to.  _Why?_!

Wandless charms were not something she had had a lot of time to practice previously, but she waved her hand at the nearest tree trunk hopefully.

"S-speculum."

The magic hummed down her fingers and did, pleasingly, cause part of the tree to become reflective. Unfortunately, her surprise at the success of the spell was rapidly eclipsed by her surprise at the image now before her.

It must have been a full minute that passed, unnoticed, as she gaped in horror at her younger self. Eleven? Twelve?  _If only this was just a dream. If only I could wake up, in the tent even, with Ron and Harry…_

She could not continue to think, as the ache in her heart was as noticeable as the throbbing of her head. It became difficult to breathe and she sank back to the ground, curled up and trembling. A tide of panic was rising in her chest and she fought hard to clear her mind.  _Breathe in, breathe out._

As soon as the logical part of her brain was able to function again, she realised that her hand had come to rest on something papery. It was an envelope, now rather muddy and creased, with 'Hermione' inked on the front in an ornate script. By comparison to other recent events, this did not even register as odd at all. She cracked open the unmarked wax seal and withdrew a letter written in the same hand.

 

_"I hope you will not think me rude for the abrupt nature of your departure. Rest assured that all the arrangements have been made here, and you have only to report to the Headmaster. You will find that your possessions, including a new wand, have already been brought inside._

_I will meet you at King's Cross after the summer term, though you will not see me."_

 

There was no signature, not that one was necessary. Did Death think that through the letter he had answered any of her questions, or eased her mind? He was utterly mental! Irritated, she did not even appreciate the ease with which she wandlessly shrunk the letter to fit it into her small skirt pocket.

A breeze was starting to pick up and Hermione shivered since her sweater was thin as well as damp. There was nothing for it; she was going to have to go inside. What other plan could there possibly be? She had no way of predicting Death's reaction if she refused him, and no way of knowing the scale of his omnipotence. Only too pleased to be leaving the horrid clearing, she practically ran in the general direction of the castle.

 

~oOo~

 

Death leant against the same tree he had been leaning against yesterday, though it was sixty years younger now. It was a good vantage point and would have made him inconspicuous even if he hadn't been invisible already.

"Rennervate," he whispered. The light hit the sleeping girl and she began to stir.

He had stunned her on her arrival so that he could transfigure her clothes appropriately, and leave her the letter, but it would not serve his purpose for her to know he was here now. However, that didn't mean he didn't want to see the expression on her face when she realised what he had done!

Given all she had been through recently, Death was pleasantly surprised with the speed of her reactions. Her lack of confidence in wandless magic would have to be addressed, but there would be time for that later. Why was she so obsessed with her teeth?  _Strange girl_.

He supposed the panic attack was inevitable, though tedious to observe. He filled the time by unwrapping a newly-purchased frog.  _How long have they been making these things? Why did I not know about it the first time round? Just as well, perhaps – I think I'm already getting fatter._ The card was that bumbling idiot Dippet, still alive in the present. He remembered collecting the old soul, remembered wondering how it could have evaded him so long with apparently no concerted effort to do so.

Looking up, Death saw that Hermione was beginning to control her breathing, and that could only be a promising sign. Eventually, she noticed the envelope. It was tricky to suppress his laughter as she read his letter, and far too tempting to slip into her thoughts afterwards.  _Oh Gryffindors, you are so amusing! How quaint that you think you could understand my motives. You are so young, you will learn. Meanwhile, everything is going perfectly._

Hermione stood, smoothed down her clothing, tucked the shrunken letter into her pocket and began to walk away. She had arrived unharmed – the stage was set – so his work here was done. It was time to go home and face the music.

 

~oOo~

 

Judging by the golden hue of the sunlight and the chill in the air, it was coming up to evening. Though the forest was very dense here, enough light was filtering down to show the way far better than when she had made the trip in the opposite direction, the patronus-glow shining eerily off the cobwebs.

_Cobwebs._

_Where are the cobwebs?!_

Hermione entertained the notion that she was not in the part of the forest that she had previously thought – but surely that was impossible. Every detail of the clearing had been imprinted on her brain, and it was only… yesterday? … earlier? … that she had been there previously. Perhaps she had just taken a different path, or was looking from a different angle?

She had unconsciously halted, turning around to make absolutely sure. Not a single wisp of silver web caught her eye, though she stared and stared. Suddenly Death's words drifted across her mind.

_If Tom Riddle had never made a horcrux… I am sending you back…_

Dread was churning in her stomach once again and she might have felt nauseous if she could remember when she had last eaten.  _I was asking the wrong question. Not **where**  am I, but  **when**  am I?_

Though she had a terrible feeling that she could roughly guess, there was only one way to be sure. Breathing deeply and squaring her shoulders, she set off again. Death had not lied, of course, for he had told her almost nothing at all. Typical! It was comical how her fondness for authority figures had evaporated over the last year or so.

The trees were thinning out, eventually giving way to the grassy lawn leading to the castle. Candlelight flickered in many of the windows in recognition of the impending evening, and she was reminded of the September night she had first laid eyes on the place. Hogwarts was just as magical tonight, though the girl she had once been was unrecognisable to her now.

Was she really doomed to go through it all again? There was no knowing how; nothing in her past could possibly have prepared her for the emotional upheaval of leaving everything behind. For a fleeting moment, the notion of ending it all floated tantalisingly across her mind. Then she laughed aloud.  _Great thinking, Granger – kill yourself to get out of a situation created by Death. Flawless._

Whatever was to come, she must act her part today, for who could possibly believe the truth? What could they do about it anyway? She had no idea how to attempt time travel in the forward direction, even if she had a plan. Death had made her his chess piece, for reasons which were entirely unclear, and until the situation became plainer she could think of no other course of action than to play along.

Reaching the oak front doors, she nervously smoothed over her clothes and hair again.  _What do eleven year olds think about? I've forgotten. Shyness should cover up most things._  A final deep breath and she slipped inside.

The entrance hall, complete with points hourglasses, looked exactly as she remembered. The bottom half of all four stood empty, giving her a clue as to the date if not the year. There was no more time to look around, for she began to hear footsteps on stone from somewhere above. A lurch of fear went through her, although she could not have said exactly why.

A witch had appeared on the marble staircase now, and she must have been about the age of Professor McGonagall – though that was where the visual similarity ended. Instead of the strict expression most often seen on her former Head of House, this woman was smiling serenely, and appeared to be humming. Her midnight blue robe was elegantly cut, flaring out as she walked. Her hair, although white, had been kept long and was arranged into a neat plait. Clearly the woman was a teacher, but she did not recognise her at all.

Having made these initial observations, Hermione lowered her head and pretended to study the pattern in the floor. After a few moments, the humming stopped rather abruptly.

"Oh! Hello dear – you must be Miss Granger." Trying not to let her surprise show, Hermione simply nodded and tried to smile politely.

"Did you come here by yourself? Where is Ogg?" The wheels were spinning in her mind, trying to find an acceptable answer. They had been expecting her, and so, they had sent someone to accompany her?

"I- I was told to find the Headmaster," she said. Ambiguity was the only means at her disposal. The woman was looking at her slightly oddly, but soon recovered.

"Certainly! I'll take you to the Headmaster's office now. My name is Professor Merrythought – Defence against the Dark Arts." She gestured for Hermione to follow her back up the staircase.

"Thank you, Professor." There was a moment of silence, in which Hermione remembered she was supposed to be seeing everything for the first time. As they reached the top of the marble staircase, the moving sets above came into view, and she made a small gasp. Professor Merrythought turned around and smiled.

"More than forty years I've worked here," she said, conspiratorially, "and there are things about Hogwarts that still surprise me. That's the beauty of it. There's always more to explore."

Hermione smiled back, and found it to be genuine – for a moment, the simple joy of speaking with another human was enough to lift the darkness.

"It's wonderful," was all she said.

They continued up two more flights of stairs and along the corridor until they reached the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office. Hermione's heart was beating fast, having so little idea of the part she was supposed to be acting.

"Osiris," said Professor Merrythought, and the gargoyle stepped aside respectfully. The revolving staircase was just as she remembered, and she still found it moderately disconcerting.

Inside the circular office, a frail man of great age sat behind the same desk that Dumbledore had always used. The portraits of previous headmasters still hung on the wall and the shelves were filled with books and magical artefacts, but Dumbledore's whirring silver knick-knacks were nowhere to be seen, and somehow the place had a comparatively impersonal feel.

"Headmaster Dippet? I found Miss Granger in the entrance hall," said Professor Merrythought, by way of attracting the old man's attention. He looked up, and recognition crossed his features.

"Ah, Miss Granger – yes. Not to worry, there's usually somebody who misses the train."

There was a solemn expression on the old man's face, and she had only a fraction of a second to wonder  _why_ before he sighed and continued. "Do accept my condolences, child, it was such a pity about your parents. Let me assure you that you'll be quite safe here at Hogwarts. I have spoken to your uncle, of course, and we've agreed that it will be best for you to stay here until the summer, to give him time to make arrangements for your care. I do hope you settle in well."

"Yes, sir," she said – and it was not hard to convey an appropriate air of desolation.  _My uncle? Riight. I wonder if anyone else ever had Death for an uncle?_ The Headmaster did not seem to have anything further to say, so there was an awkward moment in which everyone seemed to be waiting for everyone else to speak.

"R-right then," Dippet finally managed, "The other students should be here in about an hour. Professor Merrythought, could you see that Miss Granger gets ready for the feast? I must be getting along." If the witch was annoyed by the imposition on her time, she did not show it.

"Certainly, Headmaster," she said. Turning to Hermione, she added, "Come along dear. I'll have your things brought to my office and you can put your robes on in there."

Murmuring her thanks to Dippet, Hermione trotted to catch up with the defence professor. They descended back down one flight of stairs to the same classroom, and office, which had housed such a variety of teachers in the 1990s. Currently it most closely resembled how Remus had equipped it, though without the grindylow. There were more bookshelves than she remembered, too, giving the place a cosy feel.

Professor Merrythought waved her hand to light the fire, and motioned for Hermione to sit down.

"Rosie?" It was a mere fraction of a second before an elf appeared by the fireplace with a  _crack_. Her Hogwarts tea towel was immaculately clean and her large ears were alert.

"Professor called Rosie?" The small creature bowed with an elegance that could only be called surprising, given her species.

"Yes, hello dear." Professor Merrythought smiled, and Hermione was overjoyed to see the kindness in her expression as she looked at the elf. "Rosie, this is Miss Granger. She missed the train and her belongings have been brought in separately. Do you think you could fetch them here?"

The words had barely been said before Hermione heard two more cracks, and when she looked down again there was a trunk lying beside the fireplace.

"Thank you," she stuttered out, and the elf looked pleased.

"Rosie is pleased to be meeting Miss Granger," she said, bowing again. "Will the Professor be needing anything else? Tea, perhaps?"

The older witch must have caught sight of Hermione's longing expression at the word 'tea', for she smiled and said,

"Tea would be lovely, thank you, Rosie."

The elf vanished and the rumbling of Hermione's stomach was embarrassingly audible in the following silence. A tray soon appeared on the desk between them, loaded not only with tea but small sandwiches, and Hermione had never been happier to see food.

"Tuck in dear, you look starving, but don't forget to save room for the feast!" Professor Merrythought gave the teapot a stir and proceeded to pour the tea into two china cups. Hermione took her cup gratefully, uttering her thanks, and cradled it reverently between both hands. Her mother had always used to say that there was no problem a good cup of tea couldn't help, and while she didn't imagine her mother had ever had her current situation in mind, it was nevertheless comforting.

Three cups of tea and two egg sandwiches later, she really did feel a lot better. Hogwarts was safe, the fire was warm; in fact, she had been properly dozing off by the time the Professor spoke again.

"I must run a couple of errands before the feast, I'm afraid," she said, "but I will return here at ten to eight to take you down to the Great Hall. If you could put your black robes and hat on, that would be lovely." Hermione glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece – it had just passed seven thirty.

"Yes, Professor. Thank you for the tea." Professor Merrythought got up to leave, but just as she was passing Hermione's side of the desk, she paused for a moment and seemed to consider her words.

"You'll be fine, you know, at Hogwarts. We're all a big family here." The briefest touch of a hand on her shoulder, the sound of the door closing, and she was gone.

Perhaps it was down to being an only child, or because she had not had many friends growing up, but Hermione had never liked being on her own. Of course, it was nice to have time to think, and nice to study in peace – but not alone. Especially after this last year; her thoughts could not focus, instead obsessing over every tiny unfamiliar noise and the flickering shadows formed by the firelight.  _Harry, Ron… I was brave for you, wasn't I? Now I have none left for me. Some Gryffindor I am._

Forcing herself to move, she examined the unfamiliar trunk carefully. It was sturdy, wooden, and brown in colour, all of which was unremarkable. Although she found it harder to sense magic without a wand, there did not seem to be any wards around it. Taking the risk, she reached out and touched it and – when that occurred without incident – opened it.

The contents of the trunk were roughly as she imagined the rest of the first years' would be. All her textbooks appeared to be there, along with a satchel holding parchment, ink and quills. There were some clothes, which she merely glanced at in order to remove the correct robes. Now was clearly not the time for a thorough appraisal of every item in her possession.

At this point, she examined her current attire in more detail, out of some vain hope that her beaded purse might be sequestered in a pocket she had overlooked – it wasn't. She was wearing a plain navy pleated skirt that reached to mid-calf, stockings and black leather shoes.  _Sensible shoes_ , her mum would have called them. They were reasonably comfortable for something that wasn't trainers. On top, her sweater was soft and probably woollen, grey in colour. There was a white blouse underneath which felt pretty similar to the ones she had worn at Hogwarts before. The damp patch from the forest floor had by now mostly dried, so she shrugged the robe on over the top indifferently. It was a fair approximation of the right size, and she was grateful not to have to attempt any wandless alterations.

_Oh! Wand!_

It was lying in a holster attached to the inside of the trunk's lid, and she had not noticed it at first. Her outstretched fingers trembled slightly as she reached for it. What if it did not accept her?

That thought was swept away even before her fingers had made contact with the wood. A surge of power shot towards her and she felt her own magic respond and mingle readily, creating an almost pleasurable feeling. She grasped the wand tightly – stared at it – committed it lovingly to memory. The wood was darker than her vine wand, but there was no telltale patterning on the handle to give her any clues. It was entirely plain, unassuming, long and slender. Out of some sort of childish delight, she waved the wand much like she had done long ago in Ollivander's shop.

The result was instantaneous and breathtaking. Where the Professor's desk had once stood, a luminous sapling was sprouting from the wooden floor, its slender branches spreading and stretching until they reached as high as the ceiling and nearly as far out as each wall. Before her eyes, bright blossoms opened, swaying gently in an imaginary breeze, until they began to fall down in clouds, leaving the floor carpeted in pink and white petals. Soon the tree was covered with leaves and the fruits swelled and ripened, bending the branches down under the weight.

The sound of the classroom door opening startled Hermione out of her rapt admiration of the cherry tree, and she had just enough time to mutter  _Finite Incantatem_ before Professor Merrythought was sweeping back into the office.

"Got your robe on? Ah, yes – well done! Just your hat then, dear." Hermione shoved her wand into the pocket of her robes, grabbed the hat from inside the trunk and shut the lid.

"Shall I leave this here, Professor?" she asked, indicating the trunk.

"Of course, dear. I'll have Rosie send it up to your dormitory after you're Sorted."

For some reason, Hermione had not really been considering the upcoming event of her (re-) sorting, and she must have looked apprehensive, for she felt a hand on her shoulder again.

"It's nothing to worry about, you'll see. It's not a test, and wherever you're placed, you'll find plenty of friends."

Hermione managed to nod in response, but as she followed the kindly Professor back towards the staircases, she could not shake the feeling of being a person walking to the gallows.

 

~oOo~

 


	4. Chapter II: Ignatia Wildsmith

 

~oOo~

 

On the first day of September – in the year 1938 – Death apparated onto his doorstep at precisely 6.01pm. He had never been late home in his entire career and that was playing into his hands today. Awkwardly, he raised the iron knocker and rapped three times.

There was an intake of breath from someone who was obviously standing directly on the other side of the door, then silence. Outside, Death fidgeted, looked over his shoulder, and was just about to knock again when he heard the familiar sound of squealing metal. The door opened reluctantly, inch by inch. Death smiled.

“Good evening,” he said.

There was a tremendous pause, in which neither party’s expression could be gauged owing to their identical hoods.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he continued, once the waiting had become unbearable. The figure in the house retreated slightly to make room, then gestured with his hand. Death shuffled inside, removing his cloak out of habit. Everything in the anteroom was the same as he had left it ‘yesterday’, which served as a painful reminder of his monotonous existence.

“Who are you?” asked Younger Death.

“Dear me! You’re as bad as that girl! Have some manners, man.” Younger Death removed his cloak, too, which revealed his unimpressed expression. Older Death sighed. “I’m you, or rather you from some time in the future – and please don’t ask any more obvious questions, you’ll make this impossibly tedious.”

“Prove it to me.”

“Honestly, it would be the story of the millennia if someone could impersonate us!”

Younger Death crossed his arms, one eyebrow raised. “I’m still waiting,” he said.

Older Death sighed again, the wheels turning in his mind.

“Expecto Patronum.” The shimmering raven erupted from Older Death’s hand and swooped around to perch on his shoulder, ruffling its feathers proudly. This was clearly enough to convince Younger Death, for his demeanour changed instantly.

“Excellent! Sorry about that. Are you staying for dinner?”

“Dinner? Ah, yes, dinner… Yes, please. Ah, as a matter of fact, I – what I mean to say is – you see… I might be staying, you know… quite a bit _longer_ than that.”

“How long is _quite a bit longer_?”

“Well…” Older Death’s expression became pensive. “To tell you the truth, I’m not quite sure about some of the repercussions of my trip. But – to catch up to my origin – about sixty years.”

“ _Sixty years?_ You show up on my doorstep asking to stay for _sixty years_ and you’ve the nerve to tell me that _I’ve_ got no manners?”

“Yes, when you put it that way, it is rather rich, isn’t it? Still, never mind. What’s for dinner?”

Younger Death threw his hands up in disbelief and stomped off.

 

~oOo~

 

Hermione and Professor Merrythought had just finished descending the marble staircase when the front doors swung open, revealing a large gaggle of children in identical plain black robes.

“You can join the others now,” the Professor said quietly. “Good luck, dear.” Hermione nodded and tried to smile back, forcing her feet to carry her across the hall under the weight of several dozen curious stares. She slotted into the pack at the very edge, trying to become as inconspicuous as possible. Before any of the others could turn to question her, a figure emerged from the Great Hall and strode towards them. Hermione’s heart stopped beating.

Albus Dumbledore, perhaps in his mid-fifties, was very much _alive_. He wore a formal robe, dark purple in colour, with elaborate spiral patterns overlaid in gold. There was not a trace of white in his red-brown hair and his eyes were brighter and bluer than she had ever seen them.

Her former Headmaster must have been talking, for the group of first years was now shuffling into the side room Professor McGonagall had used to explain the sorting ceremony. She was vaguely aware of him speaking again, but she was not listening. Her eyes were flickering across the sea of unfamiliar faces, looking for something with the kind of fervour one only employs when one is desperate to ascertain that their quarry is _not there_.

Unfortunately, he was there.

It was unmistakably _him,_ though she had never set eyes on his younger self before. Dark eyes in a pale face, neat dark hair and a haughty expression – his back straight, chin high, posture regal. Tom Riddle stood in the very corner, looking out across the small room as a king might look upon his courtiers. It was not the kind of bearing usual in an eleven-year-old, and had Hermione truly been eleven herself, she would have been strongly unnerved. Indeed, the other children were looking away quickly whenever their gaze fell in his direction.

Unobserved by Tom, she made a full study of his appearance while Dumbledore’s soothing voice was telling the group about the sorting ceremony. He held himself immaculately, had combed his hair to perfection; however, his robe stopped an inch short of the bottom of his trousers, which themselves were an inch short of the heel of his shoe. Though the shoes had been polished to a high shine, there was obvious wear around the eyelets and in one small section the sole was just beginning to come away from the leather.

Looking at the rest of the group, she noticed the girls were wearing tailored dresses or smart skirts; flashy earrings and necklaces glittered in the torchlight. Many of the boys’ immaculate leather boots were inlaid with gold or silver filigree, house motifs embroidered onto their bright white collars and cuffs. It was a brazen display of wealth and power. Poor Tom’s shirt looked almost grey.

_Poor Tom?_

…Poor _Tom_?

It was no use, for no matter how hard she tried, she could not associate this boy – however strange, however cruel – with the snakelike monster who had recently tried to murder her. Tom, today, was simply a boy. A boy with worn out clothes, among boys brought up like princes.

“This way, single file, if you please,” said Dumbledore, and the ensuing barging broke Hermione’s trance. She stumbled after the others.

A spontaneous grin made its way onto her face as they reached the Great Hall, for all around her was the sound of forty identical gasps. Gasping had definitely been her reaction to walking into this beautiful room for the first time, too. Even Tom’s eyes had slightly widened. _I must have gone back at least half a century, but nothing has changed in here._

Professor Dumbledore led the line of first years up to the front, and Hermione felt the same twinge of nervousness she had felt all those years ago. The sorting hat – looking no cleaner or newer than in the future – sat on the stool as it always had done, ready to look into this year’s offering of young minds.

She had never put much time into studying occlumency, despite badgering Harry about it endlessly, but she suddenly wished she had. At eleven, not knowing what was about to happen and not having anything to hide, the intrusion into her mind had not bothered her. Now, the idea of it was beginning to bring on another panic attack, which she had no desire to experience in front of the whole school. _Get a grip, get a grip!_

The hat’s voice provided a welcome distraction and she gave it her attention.

 

_Professors, Ladies, Gentlemen, new students! Welcome to another year at Hogwarts._

_As most of you of course know, it is my job to sort students into the four Houses, which were created by the four illustrious founders of our school._

_Gryffindor will be your destination if you are bold and courageous. To Hufflepuff go those of exceptional loyalty and tenacity. Ravenclaw is the home of wit and wisdom, while Slytherin accepts those of ambition and cunning._

_Whichever your House, I wish you a happy and productive year. Let us begin!_

The words were spoken, not sung, and Hermione had to pinch herself at the solemnity of it. Then she caught sight of Dumbledore, resplendent in his flamboyant purple robes, and understood. _It was you! You, as Headmaster, with your brilliant-but-batty act. You brought the music to Hogwarts._ She smiled.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, a length of parchment now in his hands.

“I will be calling you up alphabetically. Please place the hat on your head.” The silence in the hall was absolute as everyone waited for the first name to be read out.

“Abbott, Titus.” A small boy stepped forward shyly and took the hat.

“HUFFLEPUFF!” Hermione wondered if a House running in the family was an inherently self-fulfilling prophecy, and how many students asked for their preferred House. Titus scurried towards the table under the yellow banner.

“Bagman, Leopold.” This boy looked more confident.

“GRYFFINDOR!” The Gryffindors cheered, and Hermione felt her insides clench as the emotion of a thousand memories came flooding back. It was too painful to look at that table, filled with so many smiling but unfamiliar faces.

“Brenner, Jacob.” Under his fraying robes, Jacob was wearing a suit which was clearly muggle. Hermione could sense the jeers from the Slytherin table without turning her head to look.

“GRYFFINDOR!” To their credit, most of the Gryffindors put on a good show of politely welcoming Jacob to their table. It was obvious he had noticed the bad feeling coming from across the hall.

“Bulstrode, Clarence.” There was a longer pause than there had been before.

“RAVENCLAW!”

“Burke, Conrad.”

“SLYTHERIN!” Conrad smirked as dignified applause came from the green table.

“Campbell, Kenneth.” Though his surname did not sound pureblood, Kenneth’s neat robes seemed to spare him the same level of jeering as Jacob had endured. He still looked terrified.

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Carrow, Belladonna.” A thin girl made her way forward, her expression proud although her clothing and jewellery pointed to her family being poorer than some of the others.

“SLYTHERIN!”

“Diggory, Ernest.” Again, the hat took a little longer to decide. Hermione wondered idly if he was Cedric’s grandfather.

“GRYFFINDOR!”

“Dolohov, Antonin.” She jumped at the sound of that name, and looked at the boy coming forward. Like the Carrow girl, it was clear that his family was not as rich as others, though his clothes were still new.

“SLYTHERIN!” No surprises there, then.

“Fawley, Cassandra.” A murmur running through the hall put Hermione in mind of Harry’s sorting. This girl was clearly well known, and perhaps her surname rang a bell, but she couldn’t put her finger on why.

“RAVENCLAW!” There were enthusiastic cheers from the blue table as Cassandra went to sit down.

“Flint, Octavia.”

“SLYTHERIN!”

“Flume, Ambrosius.”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Fudge, Cornelius.” Hermione nearly fainted as a nervous, chubby boy stepped forward. Fudge had grown up with Voldemort? It was taking a lot to shock her at the moment, but that did it.

“SLYTHERIN!” She had to consciously close her gaping mouth. Fudge shuffled up to the green table, where he was greeted was a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

“Greengrass, Eva.”

“RAVENCLAW!”

With a terrible sinking feeling, she saw Dumbledore’s mouth form the words ‘Granger, Hermione.’ Gathering up her dignity, she took the hat and sat down. In the second before the hat reached her head, she frantically cleared her mind. _Think of a lake, a fortress, a desert – anything, nothing._

 _Hello?_ – The hat was in her mind, and she could sense its confusion.

 _A natural occlumens, eh? That’s rare. Open up, or I can’t sort you._ Hermione fought against the urge to respond and kept her eyes shut tight so as not to see the hundreds of gazes on her.

_Or perhaps not a natural, then… But what are you hiding – no – why are you hiding? A brave act, to hide from me, quite Gryffindor… No, in fact, cunning like a Slytherin? How can I tell without knowing your motive..?_

The hat had paused to think again, and it was getting harder to keep her thoughts forced down.

_If you’re determined not to let me in, the only thing I know is that you can occlude – a good mind, then. It’ll have to be-_

“RAVENCLAW!”

Hermione tore the hat from her head, inhaling hard as if suppressing her thoughts was equivalent to suppressing her breathing. She stood shakily and made her way to a free spot at the end of the Ravenclaw table.

 

~oOo~

 

“So, not only do you show up unannounced – wanting to stay _sixty years –_ but you need me to take in some kid as well? This is preposterous.”

“In my defence,” Older Death bit out, rather tersely, “It wasn’t exactly the type of trip one could prearrange.”

Younger Death’s glare remained firmly in place.

“Do you imagine we will walk around with our hoods up between June and September?”

“Ah, yes,” conceded Older Death, “We will have to work something out, of course; all in good time. There is a more pressing issue.”

“Good grief, there’s more? Honestly, I preferred the solitude.”

“Yes, well…. Here’s the thing. What’s happening to you right now… Never happened to me.”

There was a long silence, punctuated only by the popping and crackling of logs in the fireplace. Younger Death surveyed Older Death from behind steepled fingers. He opened and closed his mouth several times before finally speaking.

“You’ve already erased the future you came from. Time has diverged.”

“Yes.” Another pause.

“This is unprecedented – you ought to have erased yourself.”

“Yes, I thought that might happen, but it seems my magic was stronger.”

“Interesting.” Younger Death pondered the implications, but there were too many unknowns to come to any conclusions. A different thought occurred to him, and he added, “ _They_ can’t be allowed to find out about this.”

“Odin’s beard, no.”

“We will have to keep you hidden; you must not summon them.” Older Death looked a bit upset.

“Yes, I know,” he said ruefully.

“I will carry on as always, doing our work.”

“Yes, it’s the only way… meanwhile, I’ll probably turn into some kind of housewitch.” A grin broke over Younger Death’s face.

“Maybe I will enjoy this after all,” he said.

Older Death refused to dignify that comment with a response, and kept resolutely staring at the wall. The tapestry – a rather whimsical depiction of the _Ragnarök_ **–** had been removed in his future house to make way for his collection of frog cards.

“I’ve just remembered,” he said, brightening up, “I’ve got a new hobby to show you.”

Younger Death looked at him quizzically as he sifted through his pockets. He eventually withdrew a pair of pentagonal boxes and handed one over.

“Watch out; their first jump can be quite exuberant.”

A companionable silence ensued while they both tucked in with equal abandon.

“Excellent fun,” said Younger Death, “but you must be quite out of ideas if you’re counting eating chocolate as a hobby.” Older Death chuckled.

“Look inside the box again,” he said. Following his own advice, he withdrew his card.

_Ignatia Wildsmith (1227-1320) was an English witch who discovered the magical properties of the Floo plant, leading to the invention of Floo Powder. She was killed when experimenting with the use of Erumpent horn in Christmas crackers._

“Ah, I’ve got Ingatia,” he said. “Do you remember that day – what a mess! You’d have thought she’d slow down a bit, at ninety-three, but like a true Ravenclaw she always had to try and improve on everything…”

Younger Death let out an undignified snort. “By the way,” he said, “Where’s your girl Sorted?”

“Oh, judging by her untimely demise, a Gryffindor to the bone.”

“Pity. Still, they’re always fun to get a rise out of. So predictable.”

“Indeed. Who’s on your card?”

Younger Death held up _Unctuous Osbert_. “One of the more forgettable of our esteemed Ministers.”

“Ah, yes. Better luck next time. Incidentally, I’ve no idea how many there are to collect.”

“I’m intrigued. Where do you buy them from?” Older Death smiled, realising his future supply had just been secured.

“A place in Diagon Alley. I used to get them from Hogsmeade, but it’s a different shop there now, and they didn’t seem to sell them.”

“What tremendously poor taste.” Older Death nodded his agreement with a degree of solemnity which was entirely out of proportion to the subject matter.

“So which hobby are you on, these days? I lose track,” he said. Younger Death grimaced.

“Well, I’ve wasted a _year_ trying to teach the thestrals to play quidditch, and they’re frankly no better than they were before. The amount of quaffles I’ve got through – why they like eating them, I’ll never–” Gales of laughter cut him off.

“Oh, dear me,” wheezed Older Death, wiping his eyes, “I’d absolutely forgotten about that! That’s priceless!”

“Yes. Well. Don’t forget, you’re making fun of _yourself_.” It was a good point. They both smiled, and Younger Death got up to pour a couple of firewhiskeys.

“Perhaps this won’t be _so_ bad,” remarked Older Death. He accepted the drink he was handed. “Cheers,” he said.

“Cheers.”

 

~oOo~

 


	5. Chapter III: Hengist of Woodcroft

 

 

~oOo~

 

“Greengrass, Eva.”

“RAVENCLAW!” Hermione couldn’t help but notice that this girl got a far warmer welcome to the table than she herself had done. Eva wore a smug expression and went to sit next to the girl called Cassandra; they both conspicuously avoided looking in her direction despite being seated directly opposite.

“Lestrange, Einar.”  Having been inside the family vault, she was not surprised that the Lestrange boy was perhaps the most ostentatiously dressed of them all. His boots were almost knee high – the leather embossed and inlaid with silver – and he wore a huge belt buckle in the shape of a snake’s head with emeralds for eyes.

“SLYTHERIN!”

“Longbottom, Julius.” The boy, tall for his age, bore no resemblance to Neville at all. Like Neville, though, the hat took a while to sort him.

“GRYFFINDOR!” Julius looked happy with the decision.

“Lupin, Lyall.” _Remus’ father. Please, be like your son, then perhaps we can be friends._

“RAVENCLAW!” Lyall chose to sit next to Eva, rather than next to her, and she couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed.

“Macmillan, Edwina.”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Malfoy, Abraxas.”

“SLYTHERIN!” The green table was clapping enthusiastically as their latest recruit swaggered over. Abraxas Malfoy was, in many ways, the double of his son and grandson – Hermione wondered how long the odds were of genetic history repeating itself so perfectly.

“Moody, Herbert.” Somehow, she expected a false leg and magical eye, but this Moody was a perfectly average child.

“RAVENCLAW!”Herbert took the free space next to her, and she smiled politely.

“Nott, Odelia.” The girl was wearing the most over the top jewellery Hermione had ever seen – hundreds of emeralds set in silver shone around her neck and at her wrists.

“SLYTHERIN!” _That’s fortunate, or you’d have been sporting an embarrassing amount of the wrong colour._

“Parkinson, Athena.” Athena’s dark hair and squashed features reminded her sickeningly of Pansy.

“RAVENCLAW!” As Athena was welcomed noisily to their table, Hermione began to realise with trepidation that every first year around her was very much pureblood.

“Prewett, Ignatius.”

“GRYFFINDOR!” _Some relation of Molly’s, I presume._

“Puddifoot, Martha.”

“HUFFLEPUFF!” Martha scurried off to the yellow table, and there was a small pause. Hermione looked at Dumbledore, and saw that his gaze was fixed on Tom, his expression unreadable. The moment was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

“Riddle, Tom.” The future Voldemort walked confidently to the stool. He picked up the ragged hat with a hint of disgust and brought it to his head.

“SLYTHERIN!” It was so quick that Tom hadn’t even had a chance to sit down. Hermione smirked despite herself and saw her expression mirrored on Tom’s face as he took the seat next to Malfoy’s.

“Rosier, Druella.” - another girl with ridiculous jewellery.

“SLYTHERIN!”

 “Rowle, Ingrid.” There was a long pause, which Hermione found surprising, given the surname.

“GRYFFINDOR!” She smiled. It was comforting to know that not everyone could be so easily stereotyped.

“Scrimgeour, Brutus.”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Selwyn, Brandt.”

“RAVENCLAW!” _Oh Merlin, another ancient pureblood. I should have asked for Gryffindor – why didn’t I ask for Gryffindor?_

“Shacklebolt, Evelyn.”

“GRYFFINDOR!” Everyone going to the Gryffindor table looked so normal and approachable compared to the bunch she found herself in the middle of.

“Shafiq, Aisha.”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Smith, Helen.” The poor girl was positively trembling as she stepped forward, and with a name like that, Hermione couldn’t blame her. She caught sight of one of the older Slytherins spitting onto the ground, and felt anger and hatred welling up inside her.

“HUFFLEPUFF!” Helen sat down next to Aisha, who put an arm around her.

 “Sprout, Flora.”

“HUFFLEPUFF!” It could only be a relative – sister, she supposed – of her future Herbology teacher. Flora sat the other side of Helen and also put an arm around her. Hermione was pleased for Helen, but also somewhat jealous; once again, there was nobody to comfort _her._ It occurred to her that the smart thing to have done would have been to pick Hufflepuff. _Why didn’t I think about all of this beforehand?_

“Wainwright, Clara.” Another obvious muggleborn – but Clara held herself defiantly. Hermione smiled, and knew just where she was headed.

“GRYFFINDOR!” There were only two students left unsorted now, which was just as well, because those egg sandwiches felt like they were ages ago.

“Wood, Amelia,” went to Gryffindor and “Yaxley, Adamaris,” went to Slytherin.

Once the final claps had died down, Dumbledore cleared away the hat and stool and Headmaster Dippet got to his feet.

“Welcome, everyone, to another year at Hogwarts.” Dippet’s voice was solemn, but kindly all the same. There was a scattering of polite applause, which he acknowledged with a smile. “Now that everyone has found their House, let the feast begin!”

The tables filled with food, and she felt her stomach rumble. Across from her, the two girls were still avoiding her gaze and Lupin Sr. had already begun filling his plate. She turned to Moody but he had begun a conversation with the Selwyn boy on his other side. Sighing, she served herself some roast potatoes from the platter in front of her.

“Pass them over here, will you?” It was Cassandra, the possibly-famous one, who had spoken. Despite the rather rude tone, Hermione decided to comply. Cassandra had just taken them when the girl who looked like Pansy spoke.

“I wouldn’t if I were you – you don’t know what diseases _it’s_ got.” She reached another dish of potatoes and passed it down, across Lupin, who made no reaction.

Hermione’s disbelief at the brazenness of the insult was temporarily enough to suspend her rage, and her mouth fell open in shock. Eva was openly chuckling and though Cassandra did not laugh, she accepted the other dish from Athena and served herself from that one instead.

“I mean, sure,” Athena continued, “your _father’s_ got to pretend to get along with them, but I don’t see why _you_ have to.”

They were all smirking now, and never had Hermione felt so hurt and angry – not even when Malfoy had been at his worst – not even when Professor Snape had ridiculed her teeth – not even when Ron had taken to snogging Lavender right in front of her. What could she do about it? Nothing! Any kind of retaliation in such a public place would be beyond stupid. _Revenge is a dish best served cold._

An argument on the subject would clearly be pointless, since their views had no basis but bigotry. Instead, she resolutely shut her mouth, glared, and served herself some vegetables. The girls began to chat about their families, as if the previous exchange had never happened. It was obvious that Cassandra’s father was someone very well-known, but all she could do was resolve to look it up as soon as possible.

The feast seemed to drag on forever, and she could find no real enjoyment in the food, though it was as good as it always had been. Eventually the desserts were cleared, and the Headmaster got to his feet again. It was the usual messages, and Hermione struggled not to roll her eyes as a hundred excited murmurs followed the mention of quidditch tryouts next weekend.

There was no singing of the school song (many tunes or otherwise) which was probably just as well as she wasn’t feeling much in the mood. The Headmaster dismissed everyone, informing them that classes would start in the morning and that breakfast began at seven. The older years began to shuffle out.

A tall girl appeared at their end of the table, the head girl badge pinned proudly on her lapel.

“Good evening, first years,” she said, “My name is Gertrude Ollivander. Congratulations on being sorted into Ravenclaw, the wisest of the Houses. I’m going to show you the way to our common room; please follow me and do ask any questions you might have.”

There was a bit of a commotion as everyone tried to get to their feet at once. Hermione was almost left behind as the others crowded around Gertrude, and she got the feeling that it was the boys, too, who were not keen to speak to her. She tuned out of the inane questions and answers, her feet carrying her to the common room where she had walked with Luna many times. She was curious to know what lay beyond the eagle knocker.

Hermione’s legs were getting quite tired by the time they arrived at Ravenclaw tower, and since she was right at the back of the queue going up the spiral stairs, she could barely hear the eagle’s question.

“Can portraits think?”

Gertrude was asking everyone for their opinion on the answer – Athena said “obviously not” and Clarence said “they must be able to”, while Cassandra said “maybe”. Hermione felt a vindictive thrill of satisfaction to think that her new housemates were bound to get stuck outside the common room pretty often. The eagle was clicking its beak in obvious displeasure. She shrank out of sight behind Herbert and Leopold so she would not be asked.

It was clear that Gertrude had been quite looking forward to receiving dull answers. Once no one else had anything to say, she turned to the door and said contemplatively,

“That would depend on what you mean by ‘think’. Some would consider that a portrait’s ability to hold a conversation, for example, indicated thinking. Some would argue that it is only living beings who are truly capable of thought.”

The eagle looked happier now.

“Yes,” it said, “I believe you are correct. An ambiguous question demands an ambiguous answer.” The door swung open, and Gertrude stepped through proudly. The others followed swiftly, not wanting to risk getting shut out.

The room they entered was circular, like the Gryffindor common room, but instead decorated in deep blue and bronze tones. Hermione thought it seemed more formal than she was used to – the chairs looked neater and less comfortable – but whether that was the time period or the House differences, she couldn’t say. There was a statue of Rowena Ravenclaw complete with the horcrux. _Her diadem. Her diadem. Don’t ever say the word horcrux out loud!_

Gertrude indicated to a door in the wall, adjacent to the one they had entered through.

“This is the way to the dormitories. The first years are one flight up, girls to the left and boys to the right. You’ll find your things are already up there, so I hope you all settle in well. Don’t forget our first classes begin at nine in the morning – you’ll get your timetables at breakfast.”

Cassandra, Eva and Athena bid goodnight to Gertrude in a simpering fashion which brought a sneer to Hermione’s face. The boys went up next, nodding politely to the head girl and ignoring Hermione. She could not tell if it were by accident or intent.

Gertrude was contemplating her now, since she was the only one who had not gone up to bed. Not wishing to be given another opinion on her parentage, she followed the others.

The Ravenclaw dormitories, apart from the colours of the bed hangings, appeared to be the same as the Gryffindor ones. The other three had chosen their beds, and were now opening their huge trunks. Hermione’s was lying in the middle of the floor, covered in scuff marks that had definitely not been there earlier.

As she entered the room the conversation had stopped abruptly, and now Athena started whispering behind her hand. The others giggled, watching as she reached out with her foot and pushed the scuffed trunk viciously, so that Hermione had to move to avoid being hit. Athena rubbed her shoe on the carpet exaggeratedly as if to remove invisible dirt.

Hermione snapped. Grabbing her trunk, she marched back out of the door and slammed it behind her, breathing hard.

Getting out of the tower was the only thing in her mind. Grabbing her wand out of her pocket, she shrank the trunk and cast a feather-light charm. Without a backwards glance she was in and out of the common room, down the spiral staircase and into the corridor. There was only one place she could think of to go, so she ran towards the main staircases. Nobody had even bothered to follow her.

The seventh-floor corridor was as deserted as everywhere else had thankfully been. She paced frantically three times across the familiar space, trying not to think of the last time she had stood in the same spot.

_I need a place to sleep that nobody else can find._

A door appeared in the wall, and she darted inside.

 

~oOo~

 

If Death had known how fun it was to have a drink with himself, he would have made sure that there was always two of him at home in the evenings. The best part of it was that he could oversleep as much as he wanted in the morning – that was one of the benefits to being able to go back in time.

As with any newly-discovered pleasure, there was a definite tendency to overindulge. The thought of stopping crossed his mind sometime after the decanter of firewhiskey was emptied and a new bottle halfway gone; of course, by then, it was far too late. The part of his brain that responded to common sense was long dead. All he could think was that he hadn’t had this much fun in _centuries._

Younger Death coughed twice, as if he were about to give a speech. The effect was a bit spoiled when the second one turned into a hiccup, but he soldiered on anyway:

“Ya... yu… you-” – he hiccupped again – “goddanymorea’demFrogs?”

Older Death shook his head exaggeratedly, and immediately regretted it as the whole room kept spinning long after he’d stopped.

“Gone,” he said mournfully, slipping out of his chair as he became hypnotised by the rotation of the floor. Younger Death finally got his hiccups under control.

“We gotta go out an’ buy some.” His voice was a stage whisper, as if sharing a great secret.

“Yess!” Older Death got to his feet, fell against the mantelpiece, and finally steadied himself. He groped in his pockets and felt some coins. “Les’go,” he added, grabbing Younger Death’s arm, and without another word, disapparated.

Diagon Alley was deserted – it being after midnight – which was extremely lucky. The two Deaths, disorientated from the trip, collapsed onto the pavement outside _Sugarplum’s Sweet Shop_.

Once he had caught his breath, and got over the urge to vomit, Younger Death observed (very astutely, he thought) –

“s’closed.”

Older Death’s mouth opened and shut several times as he processed this information.

“T’was open earlier.” He was struggling to fathom the crazy trading patterns of this store – _why it shut now? imma cust’mer wanna buy frogs why not open frog shop? OPEN UP!_

“Ah!” said Younger Death – rather loudly, for he had had an epiphany – “we need t’come back _early-er_.”

This sounded like a great idea, but just before Older Death could whisk them away again, Younger Death added,

“In…n’visibly… you.” He jabbed Older Death in the chest, which surprisingly did turn him invisible – then jabbed him in the chest a few more times, just to check he was still there.

“Gerroff!”

He was grabbed by an unseen arm and yanked away. When he opened his eyes again the light was nearly blinding and he staggered – a woman exiting the shop darted out of his way and began muttering about him.

“Heresh d’money,” slurred Older Death loudly, and Younger Death felt coins pressing into his hand. He added them to the pile already in his own pocket.

“Sshhhhh!” In the grand tradition of ‘shushes’ the world over, this one was louder that the thing he was ‘shushing’. He giggled and reached for the shop’s door.

The woman behind the till was eyeing him suspiciously, which he felt was entirely undeserved. Drawing himself up to his full height – which was not all that tall – he put on his best imperious look and strode up to the counter. Yes, the counter was good to lean on. She’d never be able to tell he’d been drinking.

After a few moments had passed in which the odd customer had not spoken, the shop assistant cleared her throat. This reminded Younger Death why he was there. He dug in his pocket, fishing out what was now a small mountain of change. He dumped it all onto the counter unceremoniously.

With a huge mental effort, he said:

“Frogs.”

The woman’s eyebrows had disappeared under her heavy fringe.

“How many would you like?” she asked, in an attempt to retain a professional air.

Death swallowed, and thought about it. He nudged the coins further across the counter.

“Frogs,” he said again.

The woman let out an exasperated sigh and began to stack the knuts into piles of 29, returning a piece of string and a small key that had got mixed up in the pile. He re-pocketed them.

“That’s eight sickles and twelve knuts all together,” she commented, scribbling a calculation onto a pad of paper. “48 frogs and four knuts in change. Is that alright?” Nobody had ever asked for quite that many before, but this customer nodded enthusiastically. She shook her head in disbelief and began to grab box after box – it was enough to fill two of her largest paper bags. She handed them over to the strange man and he staggered out, leaving the four knuts behind on the counter. _Nowt stranger than folk, indeed_ , she thought.

Outside, Younger Death brandished his purchases proudly to the empty air. There was a disembodied giggling sound, and then he was grasped by the arm once more.

The sitting room was much as they had left it, except for the evening sunlight streaming through the arched window and the full decanter of firewhiskey. The Older Death looked at Younger Death, then at the amber liquid, then back, but the effect was lost since he was still invisible. 

As if on cue, a distant voice was saying “Are you staying for dinner?”

Slowly, the penny dropped.

“Sshudn’t be here _yet_ ,” hissed Younger Death, gesticulating wildly around the room with his hands still holding the bags full of frogs. Instead of trying to reply, Older Death took the liberty of apparating them into the woodland behind the house. Once he had steadied himself on his feet, he cancelled the disillusionment charm; it was awfully disconcerting not to be able to see your legs at the best of times, and this did not feel like the best of times.

If the thestrals were surprised by the sudden appearance of their master – twice – they did not show it. It was barely five seconds before they went back to what they were doing, which appeared to be kicking a quaffle about. In their inebriated states, this did not strike either Death as odd at all.

“Gah,” said Younger Death eventually, “less ‘av a frog then.” He tossed one at Older Death, which missed him by several feet, forcing him to sink to the ground where he gladly remained. Younger Death sat down next to him and opened his own packet.

The frogs, who were not drunk, evaded both Deaths with comical ease. They were eventually enjoyed by a pair of thestral foals.

Older Death sighed melodramatically and drew out his card.

“Is’some quidditch player I dun’even know, how _dull_. ‘E mussn’ve ‘ad the decency t’die yet.”

“How _rude_ ,” concurred Younger Death, searching for his own card. “Ah! Is’ol’ _Hengist_.”

“Lemme see!”

_Hengist of Woodcroft was a medieval English wizard who founded Hogsmeade village in the eleventh century, after attending Hogwarts. Little is known about his life or death._

“Ha!” snorted Older Death. “ _Founded.”_ Younger Death collapsed into giggles.

“If y’can call the d’sire t’make money sellin’ mead t’children, _founded_!” They lapsed into a comfortable silence, lost in memories, until Younger Death spoke again.

“Shame they dun’remember ‘ow ‘e died, innit? All those–” He stopped abruptly, for he had glanced across at his lookalike and found him slumped on the ground, snoring.

_Some peoples just can’ hold their firewhiskey._

 

~oOo~

 


	6. Chapter IV: Dai Llewellyn

 

~oOo~

 

Hermione awoke to a soft yellow light and the sound of her wand vibrating gently on the bedside table. It was a charm she was rather proud of, having perfected it some time ago in place of an alarm clock, and today as every other day it caused her to wake up with a relaxed sort of feeling.

Unfortunately, the events of the last few days didn't take long to filter through her consciousness and spoil the mood; nevertheless, she definitely felt better for the sleep. The bed was as comfy as any she had ever slept in, the covers were warm and the room was clean and airy, decorated in cream with gold motifs.

She rubbed her eyes and forced herself upright. The air was cold, which was just as well, for it persuaded her to seek out the shower as quickly as possible.

The bathroom resembled the one adjoined to the girl's dormitory in Gryffindor tower – plain but spacious, with a claw-footed bathtub, shower stall and sink complete with a mirrored cabinet. She found that the cabinet was stocked with soap, toothpaste and other similar items, which was just as well considering Death had not packed her anything of that nature.

Shedding her pyjamas (had Death really gone out and chosen her some pyjamas?), she retrieved a bar of soap and a glass bottle of something which looked a bit like shampoo, and went to turn the water on. It was heavenly. She didn't care if everyone in the school hated her, if she had to spend seven years in the same building as Voldemort, if everyone she knew was gone or no longer recognised her – she didn't care if the shampoo smelt funny and would inevitably make her hair uncontrollably frizzy. For just a few minutes, hot water and _being clean_ was enough.

When she finally stepped out of the shower, wrapped herself in a large towel and returned to the bedroom, the first rays of sunlight were just appearing through the charmed windows. There was still half an hour until breakfast, so she took her time examining her clothes.

Apart from what she had been wearing yesterday, there were two grey skirts and another grey jumper, along with four more identical white shirts and six sets of underwear. There was also a dress, presumably intended for weekends. A second school robe and a slightly dressier pair of black shoes were right at the bottom of the trunk. _Where did he get all this stuff from?_ The idea of Death sauntering down Oxford Street with a carrier bag from _Marks & Spencer _did quite a bit to brighten her disposition.

It was a reasonable assumption that the grey skirt and jumper was the current uniform, or at least what Death had intended her to wear during the week. She dutifully put it all on, and it felt odd without a tie. _Probably get given one at breakfast_.

There was no hairbrush in the bathroom cabinet or in her trunk, and she was just starting to panic when one appeared on the bedside table. She thanked the room profusely, just in case it could understand that too. _Why would I ever go back to the dormitory? This is amazing!_

Over the years, Hermione had got better at managing her hair, though the new shampoo wasn't really ideal. Since she didn't know how to do any of the styles that might be in fashion at the moment, she simply made a ponytail for practicality. It was hard to stop staring at herself in the mirror, her eleven-year old reflection creepily unfamiliar.

Making a snap decision, she pointed her wand at her teeth cautiously.

"Reducio."

 _That's better._ With a final glance in the mirror, she declared herself ready to face the day.

Since she didn't know what lessons she would be having, she was forced to put all her books into her satchel. It was a bit of a squeeze. Next, she placed the hairbrush in her trunk – it wasn't really stealing, if she was going to bring it back, was it? Finally, she shrank and lightened the trunk again and placed it inside the satchel. Carrying all her belongings around with her was a hard habit to break.

As her hand rested on the doorknob, she remembered to disillusion herself in case there was someone outside. It didn't seem wise to let anyone know where she'd been, especially if they didn't know the room existed at all.

The corridor, at five to seven, was predictably vacant. She decided to descend a couple of floors before removing the disillusionment charm in an alcove with no portraits – just in case. Time had taught her that too much caution was never a bad thing, so she even chose the main stairway route down, remembering that she was not supposed to know about the shortcuts.

The clock in the entrance hall was just chiming seven as she passed. No sound came from the great hall, which was hardly surprising, as the only occupants turned out to be four professors in various states of alertness.

Professor Merrythought, who was pouring herself a cup of tea, sat beside a kindly-looking man dressed in black and yellow robes. On this man's other side sat Dumbledore – dressed in red and gold today – and on Dumbledore's other side was the young Slughorn. Surprisingly, he didn't look much different.

Hermione went reluctantly to the Ravenclaw table and sat down, unnoticed, where she had sat last night. She realised that the four professors were wearing house colours, and that probably explained why they were forced to be here right at the start of breakfast today. _Professor Merrythought is my head of house. Perhaps things are looking up._

She was just about to pour herself some pumpkin juice when she realised that a small tawny owl was swooping towards her. It held out its leg, and she disengaged a muggle envelope, but the owl did not leave. ' _Hermione'_ , read the front of the envelope, in the same hand as the letter from yesterday. She suppressed the urge to sigh and instead opened it up, withdrawing a piece of muggle notepaper.

 

 _September 2_ _nd_ _, 1938_

_Dear Hermione,_

_I am sending this letter with our new owl, as Professor Tofty showed us, so I do hope it reaches you. I still don't understand why I can't use the regular post, or a telegram. Please keep the owl with you if possible – it's a nuisance here._

_It was good of the Professor to come and collect you following the sad events of yesterday; we could never have got to King's Cross on time. I hope you can take comfort from having been with your father in his final moments._

_I am afraid there is no money for a proper funeral. I have arranged a burial at the Sanatorium – I know he enjoyed the gardens while he was staying there, so I hope you approve._

_I pray that you are settling in well and that you will work hard at your lessons. After your mother died, you were all your father had left, and he would not want to see you languishing in grief. Choose your friends carefully and the future will become brighter._

_The passage of time will heal all wounds._

_Your uncle,_

_John Granger_

 

 _Well, at least I know the date now,_ she thought dispassionately. There was no time to further analyse the contents of the letter, for Professor Merrythought was making her way over.

"Good morning, dear," she said cheerfully, "you're up early." Hermione put on her best polite smile.

"Good morning, Professor," she said. A tie and a sheet of parchment appeared on the bench next to her.

"Congratulations on being sorted into Ravenclaw – I will be your Head of House, so it's me you come to if you have any problems. Do you think you can remember where my office is?" Hermione pretended to think for a second.

"Yes, Professor, thank you." She picked up the sheet of parchment. "Is this my timetable?"

Professor Merrythought nodded, before adding, "By chance, you're with me all morning. Double Defence Against the Dark Arts." This conveniently allowed Hermione to ascertain that today was a Friday.

"I'll… look forward to it," she replied, for lack of anything else to say. Professor Merrythought laughed.

"I'm sure you will, dear. Anyway, you enjoy your breakfast, and I'll be leading the class up to my room at 8.45 – or you can find your own way there." The customary pat on the shoulder, and the Professor was heading back to the staff table. Hermione noticed the man in yellow was smiling at her in a familiar sort of way, so she smiled back. _He must be Professor Tofty – I wonder what he teaches?_

As Hermione was finally starting her breakfast, the first few students shuffled sleepily into the hall. A couple of older Ravenclaws greeted her casually as they passed, which restored some of her faith in her new House. Across at the Slytherin table, Tom Riddle was by himself – he must have sat down while she wasn't looking. Tom was eating a piece of toast while reading a textbook he had propped against the fruit bowl, but looked up as she was staring at him. She quickly looked away and pretended to be very interested in her scrambled eggs.

Once she had had as much to eat as she felt was reasonable, she decided she would make her way to the defence classroom so as to start reading the textbook in peace. The tawny owl was still sat there, beginning to eye up the sausages.

"I need you to go to the owlery," she whispered. "I'll visit you later." Whether or not it understood, it hooted softly and flew away. She gathered up her satchel and walked out without looking at Tom.

Halfway up the marble staircase, she met Cassandra, Eva and Athena coming the other way. They started giggling as soon as they saw her, but she kept her face expressionless and pressed on past them.

"Hey Granger!" The irritating whine of Athena Parkinson forced her to turn around. "Sleep well last night?" Hermione blinked a couple of times, and pretended to be just noticing them.

"Oh, Athena, good morning! Yes – thank you for asking, it was lovely. I had a room to myself and everything." Hermione paused just long enough to properly appreciate the looks on their faces, then swept off. No witty retort followed her up the stairs, and she grinned smugly.

 

~oOo~

 

When Death woke up, he felt like… well… Death. He had not had a headache like this one in at least seven centuries. Never, never again was he going to try and out-drink _himself_ – it was so far beyond stupid that there ought to be a new level of stupidity invented in his honour.

After a lengthy period of time, in which he determined that he could still feel all his limbs, he began to open his eyes very slowly. The light was dim through the trees but felt nearly blinding; he guessed it was well past dawn. He was alone, apart from the two bags of chocolate frogs. _Bastard's gone off to work and just left me here!_

It was pretty cold on the ground, and Death decided that – at his age – he had better get up sooner rather than later. There were various internal creaking and snapping sounds as he raised himself to his feet and he let out a strangled cry, followed by a colourful array of words in several obsolete languages. He limped all the way to the back door, fearing the repercussions if he were to try and apparate.

Inside, the smell of something frying made him want to vomit. He turned away from the kitchen, entered the sitting room and lowered himself gingerly into his chair by the fire (now just ashes).

"Nifty?" His throat was so scratchy that his voice was only a hoarse whisper.

Nifty appeared with a 'pop'.

"Y-yes Master?"

Nifty looked inordinately pleased to be called, and Death realised he was not the senior elf yet. He looked very young, and he wrung his ears nervously as he awaited his instructions.

"Oh, hello… Nifty. Yes. I just wondered if you could bring me a glass of water, and perhaps a headache potion." The poor elf looked quite worried. He nodded, ears flapping, and disappeared again.

Once he had swallowed the potion, he did begin to feel a bit better. The light was no longer painful, and the pounding in his ears had reduced. He sent Nifty away with a promise that he would have breakfast in a while, which seemed to please him.

Somehow, it came to Death's attention that there were two frog cards in his pocket. They were now a painful relic of the night before, but he re-examined them even so.

 

_Dai Llewellyn, the chaser for the Caerphilly Catapults, has twice represented Wales at the World Cup. He is known for his spectacular flying style, including inventing the Sloth Grip Roll. In his spare time, Dai enjoys travelling and observing magical creatures in the wild._

 

Death stared at the picture. Last night, he hadn't recognised the man – but he probably wouldn't have recognised his own mother. As he passed the card to his other hand, the head was temporarily obscured, and suddenly he remembered. _You're that bloke that got mauled by a chimaera! There wasn't too much of you left after that. I wonder if you still like observing magical creatures, now you're on the other side…_

Remembering particularly exciting deaths always put him in a good mood. He finished off his glass of water and ambled out into the hall, where a plate of eggs and toast was waiting in his spot.

After he had eaten, he realised he had meant to send a letter to Hermione. He glanced at the grandfather clock, which read 9.05 – much too late. He closed his eyes, cleared his mind, focussed, and opened his eyes again.

The grandfather clock now read 06.05 – perfect. The house was dark and quiet, and he made his way back through the sitting room to a room which served as his study. He lit the fire and the candles on his desk, pulled out some parchment, and got to work.

It was some time later, once he had transfigured the parchment into muggle paper and checked the letter for the tenth time, that he opened the window and called for an owl. The clicks and hoots issuing from his mouth sounded strange even after all these years, drifting through the window and out into the woodland.

The first to answer was a large barn owl, very dark in colour. It was rare but not unheard of, and Death chuckled. No way was he sending her a huge black owl; she would think him a theatrical idiot! He guided the creature back out into the night and it hooted its irritation.

The next to arrive was a tawny female, average in every way. The cheapest you would be able to buy in Diagon Alley. _Perfect._ A few hoots to check she wasn't leaving chicks in the nest.

 _You will be gone a long time_ , he said.

She clicked her beak impatiently.

_Send me._

He attached the envelope to the owl's leg gently.

"Portus." A blue glow surrounded the letter. She took flight and, a moment later, vanished.

Death closed the window, sat back down in his desk chair and promptly dropped to sleep.

 

~oOo~

 

Tom Riddle opened his eyes just as the first spikes of the sun motif were appearing at the eastern edge of the charmed ceiling. He had spent half the night staring at the moon and the constellations moving above the bed, even though they were just pictures, for he had never really seen the night sky before. In London there were too many streetlamps.

There was no sound coming from any of the other beds; the heavy brocade hangings still drawn shut. He glanced at his wristwatch – 6.25. Time to get up.

Tom rose silently, picked up his clothes and padded to the bathroom. He would be up and gone before any of them realised, and that was just the way he wanted it.

Quickly, but precisely, his morning routine was completed. It was a skill learned from the orphanage; rise early, don't let them see you unless you are _ready_. Ready to present the correct image. Tom pulled at his collar, making sure it lay perfectly straight, and checked his hair one last time. He practiced his shy smile – the one the grown-ups all loved. _The poor orphan boy_ , they would say, and he would let them. Let them pity him and underestimate him and never recognise the power within. Everyone would fall for the smiling serpent, for that was how the story always went.

Tom picked up his satchel (second hand, but he had chosen carefully) and added all his books, just in case. No one would _ever_ say he wasn't prepared, _ever_ say he didn't try the hardest, _ever_ say that he was not the best. The rest of them, with their fancy clothes and their posh accents and their _Daddy-_ this and _Mummy-_ that… they would soon learn.

Today was a big day, because today he would be taught some _real magic_. So far he had seen trick flames, floating candles, hopping chocolate and a talking hat. He didn't think much of it. He was meant for _so much more_ than that.

The door clicked shut behind him as he left the others still sleeping. 6.38. _Good._ The castle was very large and he intended to learn all of it as soon as possible – sooner. Now.

Corridor after corridor was deserted, the sound of snoring coming from every portrait, his footsteps light on the flagstones. Tom wandered the dungeons, cataloguing the turns and doors and statues, looking and truly _seeing_ unlike so many others. Once he had committed the floor plan there to memory, he ascended silently to the entrance hall and on up the marble staircase. 6.49. Still no sign of anyone.

The first floor was much larger than the dungeons. There was no way he was going to learn it all this morning, so he settled for merely mapping out the perimeter, and even that was not as easy as it sounded. _Fascinating._ In the distance, a bell was chiming. 7.00. Time for breakfast. He retraced his steps to the marble staircase and descended unseen; it really was comically easy to avoid people here.

Just three Professors were sat at the staff table, including Dumbledore, who looked up as he entered and greeted him with a solemn nod of the head. It took him a second to decide how to react, so perhaps his smile was insincere, because Dumbledore continued to regard him coldly. It was troublesome, but he would win them all over in the end. _The act must not slip._

The only other student present was the strange girl from yesterday – raised away from magic, judging by her clothes and the reaction of her housemates. It had not taken long for him to realise that all-magical families classed themselves as wildly superior to others. All Tom knew, with a certainty borne not only of arrogance, was that his magic was _strong_. His father's family must have been mighty, and once he discovered more, the others would beg to be near him. No longer Tom Riddle, poor orphan boy, but Tom _Riddle_ , powerful son of a powerful House. They would forget all about his weak mother.

He took out a textbook at random from his satchel and stood it open in front of him; reading had always been a surefire way of ensuring no conversation with other people, while providing perfect cover for his subtle observations. _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi._ He had already read it, of course. He buttered a piece of toast neatly, without looking at it.

The girl, whose name he couldn't remember, was talking to the Professor that she had been stood with yesterday. It didn't take a genius to deduce that the teachers in attendance had some sort of House affiliation. He was relieved to see that the one dressed in green was not Dumbledore.

She was staring at him – again – and not even subtly. It was unnerving, so after a while he looked up. She looked terrified, caught in the act, and pretended to examine her plate. Since he had never even spoken to her before, he found this reaction a bit surprising. _At Hogwarts before everyone else, but not from a magical family. Up for breakfast at this time. You're not like the others. I'm watching you._

Not long after, the girl got up to leave. Her owl flew off at the same time, and he sneered internally at the thought that Mummy and Daddy had been checking on her quite so early. He took a sausage and some bacon now that there was nobody watching him – both were a rare novelty at the orphanage. He had just finished when a gaggle of voices became audible through the doorway.

Malfoy and Lestrange preceded Burke and Dolohov into the hall, the Fudge boy trailing along behind. The conversation faltered when they spotted him already at the table, and they took their places in silence.

They had laughed at him last night, when they were alone in the dormitory once the Head Boy had left. They had smirked, and sniggered, and gestured to his battered case and his 'muggle' shoes.

They were not laughing anymore.

 

~oOo~


	7. Chapter V: Eloise Mintumble

~oOo~

 

It was a perfect night for astronomy; the sky was clear and the moon bright, almost full. She had directed her telescope to the sea of tranquillity, as Professor Babel had instructed, but it could not have been further from her mind. She was restless, on edge, both deathly numb and coiled like a spring at the same time. It was a horrible, unfamiliar feeling.

The day had been spent, for the most part, in avoiding people. After the double Defence lesson, she went to the kitchens for lunch to avoid the other Ravenclaws. Then, a free afternoon meant she went to the library and spent four hours gathering books on time travel while looking like she was doing the Defence homework. She had been forced to shrink and steal ( _temporarily borrow_ ) all thirty four books, to avoid arousing suspicion checking them out.

Back in the room of requirement, she sat on her bed among stacks of books, becoming more and more frantic. There was so much on turning back time – some people had gone even further than her, in fact. The process, if not the magic behind it, was well-understood. But there was nothing, _nothing_ on going the other way. The parchment she had put out for note-taking was mockingly blank. She tore off a corner and grabbed her quill; three words. Folded the rest of the sheet into a small envelope and stalked to the owlery, hoping to clear her head.

Hermione watched the tawny owl fly away southwards until it was just a tiny speck which was finally lost among other closer birds. She sent the message away like a prayer, just in case that was all it took.

_Send. Me. Back._

It was an hour or two later, while perusing _The Mysteries of Time_ , that she came upon one single reference in the introduction.

_The Hour-Reversal Charm has no known counter-spell; that is to say that time travel in the forward direction has never been achieved. This is thought to be because a particular future is never fixed, the time-traveller having already altered their point of origin by the action of going back._

Hermione read the words so many times that they became a meaningless jumble of letters. She could not allow herself to agree with the author. She had to believe there was a way to undo what had been done, that Death held that power even If nobody else did. It was not possible, not _right_ , to think that she could be writing a new future, one in which Harry Potter and Ron Weasley went to Hogwarts without her, while she was – what? – in her seventies? _No… no. No._ There had to be a way.

Engrossed in her reading, she had completely missed dinner, and was headed off on the way to the kitchens at curfew by a Hufflepuff prefect. That had been at 8pm. It was now approaching 2am, and she was _starving_ , which did nothing to improve her state of mind.

A dull chime sounded from the clock in the entrance hall, followed by another. Professor Babel asked them for eighteen inches of parchment on the reason why one side of the moon was always facing away from Earth, then dismissed them until next week.

Hermione noted down the homework apathetically, packed her things away and crossed to the staircase. Deliberately she waited for the others to pass out of sight, not wanting anyone to see the direction she was walking.

Unfortunately, some of the Slytherin boys had stopped just around the corner. Malfoy, Lestrange and Burke were gathered threateningly around Fudge, but she could not hear what they were saying. When some time had passed and they showed no sign of moving on, she decided to step around them.

As it transpired, there was not quite enough space between Malfoy and the wall, and the very edge of her bag just touched him. He spun around, closely followed by the other two, and out of the corner of her eye she noticed Fudge slip away.

“Watch it, mudblood,” he spat, taking half a step closer so that she was backed right up against the wall. She narrowed her eyes. It was hard to be intimidated by an eleven-year-old these days.

“Watch it yourself, you inbred moron.” Three identical gasps, and a fraction of a second later the blond made to grab the front of her robes. She felt her magic surge, uncontrolled, and suddenly Malfoy was staggering backwards, clutching his throat and making a grotesque, gurgling noise. The other two rushed towards him, holding him up as his body began to slide to the floor. Hermione panicked – she could not remember the last time her magic had acted of its own accord. The terrifying choking sounds were ringing in her ears and she was frozen in horror.

By the time she had come to her senses enough to end the spell, Malfoy was bright red but managing to gasp desperately for breath. _He’s going to be okay_. Overwhelming relief flooded her, and on instinct she began to run, not caring the direction, until his wheezing coughs could no longer be heard echoing along the corridors.

Heart pounding, she ducked into an alcove behind a suit of armour and collapsed into bitter sobbing. At first it was the shock, the distress of having nearly killed someone – _a child, at that_. Then it became tears of anger, at the futility of it all, at Death who had acted so entirely without her consent and with dubious motive, at herself for having no plan and seeing no way out. Finally, it became simply grief; a bone-deep, throat-burning grief for a lifetime of love and friendship gone away. Grief for the impossibility of going on alone, untethered and drifting on this foreign ocean.

An hour, perhaps, on the floor – freezing now and shaking, heaving sobs with no tears anymore, her head throbbing, throat burning, chest aching. It was a miracle nobody had heard her, or happened to pass by. She forced herself upright, joints creaking, and limped to the seventh floor corridor. Less than three hours until her alarm would go off, but she would ignore it. _Saturday_. Two days to read the time books, to find some answers. _There must be a way._

 

~oOo~

 

_So much for learning real magic_. Maybe some of the other classes would be better, but Potions was practically menial labour. Chop this, shred that, stir it ten times clockwise. From the praise Slughorn lavished on him, you would have thought it was brain surgery. After lunch, in which he had successfully used his propped-up textbook to deter all attempts Dolohov made to talk to him, he continued his exploration of the first floor.

There were lessons going on in most of the classrooms he passed, and the number of other students walking about made his unhurried observations rather difficult, so he eventually gave up and ducked into the library.

Passing by one of the back corners, he spotted the odd girl from breakfast surrounded by a stack of Defence books. It seemed a bit early to be starting homework, but since he was currently on a bit of a mission himself, he didn’t think any more about it.

The reference section appeared to be shelved alphabetically by subject – wooden dividers protruded at intervals, labelled in gold leaf. _Transfiguration…_ he skipped a few bays… _Mind Arts… sounds interesting, but stay focussed… Herbology… No, still further… Divination… What’s that anyway?_ He was most of the way back to the entrance by now, which was fairly logical since he was looking for ‘A’. Luckily nobody seemed to be noticing his circuitous route.

Here it was. _Ancestry_. The section was brief, barely a few feet of shelf space crammed between _Alchemy_ and _Animagi_. He pulled out _A Directory of Wizarding Families_ , since it was the thickest one there, and skipped to ‘R’.

Six chimes, and the place emptied almost instantly – evidently dinner time. The light coming through the large windows was now a golden colour and he realised he had been sat in the same place for something like three hours. There were no books left on the shelf; a huge pile had accumulated around him as he discarded each one with increasing frustration.

He was probably looking in the wrong place – Riddle had to be there somewhere – he would just have to come back tomorrow. Returning the books to the shelf neatly, he made his way to dinner, which was tedious, and then to the common room to wait for midnight, which was interminable.

Astronomy was even duller than potions. The Professor had introduced herself and spoken about how they would be studying the moon this term, but she had entirely neglected to give a reason. _We have to stay up until 2am once a week for this – why? What the hell does it matter if the moon’s in Sagittarius or Scorpius?_

At the end of the lesson he swept off ahead of everyone else, eager to beat the others back to the dormitory. He had got as far as the main staircase when he realised only the Ravenclaws were behind him. He doubled back quietly – if the others were sneaking off somewhere, he wanted to know about it.

It turned out they were just threatening Fudge, this time something to do with the homework. _Boring._ He was just about to leave again, when Malfoy spoke much more loudly.

“Watch it, mudblood.”

Fudge scurried past him, and he ducked behind a statue just in time to avoid being seen. It was the odd girl – Granger – who was now speaking. He had not yet heard anyone except himself talk back to Malfoy, and the gasps from his housemates indicated that they hadn’t either.

A familiar choking sound made him raise an eyebrow and peer out from behind the statue. Malfoy was twitching, rapidly going red in the face as he slumped against Burke. Granger looked terrified, which was a bit confusing, because last night he’d been ecstatic when he’d done the same thing. Perhaps she hadn’t meant to do it, but it was strong magic all the same. _Interesting._

Sadly the choking stopped before it could do any permanent damage. Granger ran past him, and by the time it occurred to him to follow her, she was long gone. Burke and Lestrange were discussing getting a teacher, so he began walking as silently and quickly as possible in the direction of the common room. No good being caught at a crime scene, however innocently. Let them think he had gone straight to bed.

 

~oOo~

 

The weekend passed in a blur of reading, and soon the first full week had been and gone too. No mention of the incident outside the astronomy tower and no word from Death. In fact, no word from almost everyone. The Ravenclaw girls fastidiously avoided her and the boys never seemed to have a reason to speak to her. The other houses kept mostly to themselves. In class she made herself average, and as a result most of the teachers still did not remember her name. It was almost as if she was not there at all, and that was exactly how she felt.

Sunday breakfast was the best of the week, for not even any of the teachers made it down at seven. Tom Riddle entered the hall just behind her, as he always did, and the routine had become some twisted facsimile of comforting. They had never spoken, and both pretended not to notice the other. It was the same in the library, where they often found themselves at times of day no one else would dream of being there. She noticed that he was still looking for his family, moving between the sections _Ancestry_ and _History._ Once, when she was taking a shortcut back to bed just before curfew, she noticed him sat on the floor of the trophy room examining a row of shields.

On this particular morning, she was halfway through a bowl of porridge when the sight of the tawny owl stopped her heart dead for several beats.

The envelope was small, unmarked – the one she had folded up out of her spare piece of parchment. She half expected to draw out her own plea, returned to her in contempt. Instead, and more bizarrely, the envelope contained only a chocolate frog card.

_Eloise Mintumble was an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries between 1882 and 1899. Whilst experimenting with time magic, Eloise was accidentally sent back to the year 1402. It was later discovered that she died in 1468, never able to return to her own time._

With a feeling of dread, Hermione turned the card over. On a small blank space, two words were written in the now-familiar script.

_I cannot._

 

~oOo~

 

Like last Sunday, Granger was the only other person down for breakfast at seven. During the week, there were often a few others keen enough – or perhaps they had homework to finish before the first lesson. But on Sundays, _everyone_ wanted a lie-in. It suited him perfectly, because it meant plenty of time to go about his weekend explorations in peace. Once the corridors got too crowded, he would go out to the grounds, and when other people began to appear there too, he would retire to the library.

Genealogy books, school records, general reading about famous wizards – nothing. Not a Riddle anywhere, and he was beginning to get desperate. It occurred to him that Dumbledore might know something, but he had gone almost twelve years without asking anyone for help and had no desire to start now.

The sound of rustling feathers caused him to look up from his bacon sandwich, and he saw Granger’s face pale. He could not see what she was holding, but she shoved it deep into her satchel and left the hall, breakfast half finished.

It was unthinkable not to follow her, since there were absolutely no witnesses. The sound of a heavy door closing indicated she had gone outside, so he gulped down the rest of his sandwich and hurried out before she could get any further away. He had followed her on several occasions, mostly in the evenings because he had begun to suspect that she did not go to the same place as the other Ravenclaws. But she was elusive, always looking behind, walking quietly and often seeming to disappear altogether. It was incredibly frustrating.

Today, there was no such problem. The girl walked slowly, perfectly visible, and never once looked behind her. Her shoulders were shaking, presumably not from laughter.

Granger eventually stopped amid a stand of trees growing by the lakeside. He had visited the same spot yesterday – it was pleasant and felt sufficiently shielded from the many eyes of the castle above. At the foot of a large tree, she slumped down among the red-gold leaves and he lingered some distance behind. There was no obvious hiding place, but she was in no state to notice him, sobbing in a way he had heard many times at the orphanage. Then, he had found it irritating, but now he felt simply mild curiosity.

After a while, she brought her breathing under control, and took out her wand.

“Expecto Patronum!” He did not recognise the spell. If it had any effect, he could not see it from his position. She let out a pained cry, which he took to mean that the spell had not worked.

“Expecto Patronum!” This time, he could see a thin silver mist hover in front of her, but it disappeared as she broke down into sobs again. Around her, the colourful leaves were shrivelling up and turning brown. This seemed to make her cry even harder.

He was growing bored now, and began to consider returning to the castle when she flicked her wand silently.

For a while, nothing seemed to be happening, but then he noticed something rising from the earth between her and the lake. As it grew, he could see that it was some sort of tree – charmed, judging by the luminescent bark. The tree sprouted blossoms, and once the blossoms fell they were replaced by leaves and swelling fruit. The branches sagged under the growing weight, until the fruit, which appeared to be cherries, shrivelled and fell. The leaves turned a burning orange and, sparking, fell. Left bare, the tree trunk stood like some sort of headstone above the crying girl.

It was not long before the tree began to bear blossom again, and Granger’s sobs were cut off as if taken by surprise. In a moment of bored, impulsive destruction, he flicked his wand.

A vortex of wind approached the tree and the blossom shook and began to prematurely fall. He smiled, and in that moment Granger looked his way. He could not make out her expression, but he had clearly startled her. A vicious slash of her wand and the wind was gone. She turned away again, dismissing him, and in place of boredom came anger.

It took her a long time to notice his charmed snake winding through the branches, but he was satisfied to see that it gave her a good fright. Less satisfied that she vanished it so casually.

Anyone else would be impressed at his magic, but she said nothing. It was like she expected it, and though she must know that he did very well in classes, it wasn’t like this kind of thing had ever come up.

He glared fiercely ahead at the lake, channelling power the way he had long ago taught himself to do. The surface of the water twitched, little waves scattering the wrong way, swelling together. Soon there was a huge wall of water a few feet from the shore. He flicked his wand.

Her movement was so fast that he did not truly see it, but instead of the giant wave crashing over the tree as he had expected, the water broke onto a large hemisphere of light and somehow bounced back into the lake, stray droplets flying everywhere. He had to stop himself from smiling.

He vanished the shining dome and the cherry tree disappeared too. She sighed, and something about it made him open his mouth and speak, though he did not normally engage in small talk.

 “You’re not like the others.” It was a statement, not a question. She made no indication that she had heard him, and threw a stone angrily into the lake.

“No,” she said quietly, after a while, still staring out onto the water. Another stone was thrown in, and then, “Neither are you.”

He said nothing.

“They hate us,” she continued, and Tom felt that she was speaking as much to herself as to him. “They hate us because we were raised among muggles. They think it makes us weaker, less magical, but they’re wrong; it’s the opposite.”

Tom felt he should be saying something – perhaps even arguing – but he couldn’t think of anything, and his anger surged again. Another stone hit the water.

“We learn to understand our own magic in a way they never do. We grow up being told we’re… _different_. Special, perhaps. How did you feel when you found out you were a wizard? It’s strange, isn’t it? We grew up special, but here we’re just ordinary.”

A stab of rage flew through him.

“I am _not_ ordinary!”

She smiled. It was a strange, sad smile, and when she looked up it felt as though she were looking straight through him.

“No,” she said softly, “You aren’t. And you never could be.”

She stood up, shouldered her satchel and walked off, leaving him staring mutely at the pile of dead leaves.

 

~oOo~


	8. Chapter VI: Queen Maeve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for the kudos and comments so far, I appreciate it!

 

 

~oOo~

 

The days kept passing, as if they had no concern for the way her life had imploded and ground to an angry halt. There was still breakfast, lunch, dinner – still lessons, still homework. A few days after she received the chocolate frog card, Hermione was called in to see Professor Merrythought, and it transpired that her teachers were ‘concerned’ about her. Frankly, she was surprised they had even noticed, but she was forced to nod along and say that she was fine, that she would try to put more effort into her work, but she was _just finding it all a bit difficult at the moment_. Professor Merrythought had simply smiled kindly and said that plenty of muggle-borns found it hard to settle in, but that it would get better.

It was almost painful to insinuate that she was struggling academically, particularly when talking to the head of Ravenclaw. But it suited her to be underestimated at the moment; underestimated tended to mean ignored. She particularly did not want the Professor to find out about her sleeping arrangements, for fear of being sent back to the dormitory and watched more closely. It was obvious that the other girls would not tell on her, but she was keen to avoid all suspicion.

In her lessons, and at mealtimes, she threw what little energy she could muster into appearing normal. She ignored most of the other students, and they learnt to ignore her, until it was only _him_ left. As she became more and more invisible to the others, so Tom Riddle was increasingly her only observer. She saw him not only at mealtimes and in the library, but lingering by secret passageways and in remote corners of the grounds. They never spoke, and she was sure that he was almost never following her. It was simply that they often seemed to find themselves in the same place at the same time.

One such time was the nineteenth of September – a Monday – in the library, sometime after dinner. In deference to the date, and in an uncharacteristic fit of self-pity, she had just visited the kitchens to spend some time with the elves, since they were the only company she enjoyed. They loved her, for she had managed not to mention her views on enslavement, but regularly complimented their cooking and cleaning and now remembered many of their names. Of course, as soon as they learnt of her birthday, they insisted on celebrating. There was a flurry of activity, and in next to no time there were trays of little cupcakes emerging from the oven. The elves topped them with coloured stars stamped out of jelly, leftover from dessert, and her beaming smile was entirely genuine.

Hermione eventually managed to persuade the little creatures to have some cake with her, but there was still quite a few left afterwards.

“Miss Hermione takes for her friends!” said Tiggy, who was one of the younger elves and had become particularly attached to her. Several dozen heads nodded in agreement, ears wobbling. She could not bear to disappoint them, so settled instead for reaffirming her thanks and praise, and accepting the box. Her feet carried her to the library as much out of habit as intent.

So that was how, in a moment of unthinking stupidity, she had come to offer Voldemort a cupcake. (It was also how, tangentially, she came to realise that Voldemort had so far been more pleasant to her than a significant proportion of the others).

He was looking at her as if she had sprouted a second head.

“Err - it’s my birthday,” she added, as if that made it normal. There was rather a long pause, in which he entirely failed to give her the traditional greeting of the day. Eventually, he took a cake somewhat suspiciously. _The one with the green jelly. Of course._ He ate it silently, but obviously enjoyed it, since a few minutes later he ensured there was nobody else about and then took another. She returned to her Transfiguration homework, too surprised to be offended.

His voice startled her, since she usually only heard it in class. There, it was charming-Tom. This was simply _Tom_.

“Did someone send you those?” He spoke with the brusque confidence of someone who is always answered, _right now_ , or else.

“I- I got them from the kitchens,” she said, since no suitable lie presented itself. Tom looked annoyed, excited, curious, stern – a combination only he could manage.

“Tell me where they are.” Only the briefest of hesitations before she answered:

“No.”

His shocked expression rapidly gave way to anger and he stood up threateningly.

“I said, tell me!”

Hermione had always been expecting Tom to try using force against her, and hence she had spent some time idly considering the best response. Safe in this knowledge, she too stood up.

 “No.”

The air suddenly felt chilly and she could sense the power rolling off Tom, not unlike before he had raised the great wave from the lake. She drew her wand.

“Petrificus Totalus.”

The feeling of Tom’s power exploding against her spell was something quite foreign. Instead of going stiff and falling over, as she had expected, he merely staggered back a step. She wasted no time.

“Incarcerous!”

Tom looked murderous as the ropes tightened around him, and she knew that he would be able to break out soon. He was astoundingly in touch with his magic; she had never yet seen him use his wand outside of class. _Distraction tactics, then_.

“Tom.”

She had never said his name before, and the surprise was just enough to snap him out of his rage for a second.

“Tom. Listen to me a minute.” His eyes narrowed, but he remained still. “You don’t scare me. And I don’t scare you. So please, let’s stop this. I’m going to untie you now.”

A bell in the distance announced the impending curfew. Silently, she collected her things and vanished the ropes.

“Goodnight, Tom.”

 

~oOo~

 

Since the library incident, Tom had been avoiding the Granger girl where possible. At first, it was simple anger, which morphed into angry humiliation. Later, it was more that he was… unsettled. There were not many people who had ever stopped him getting something he wanted; nobody at all, in the end. Everyone succumbed to either charm or violence. _Ah. Charm. Maybe that’s the answer._

It was Friday afternoon, their free period, and she was sat at her usual table in the back corner of the library. He put down his bag a few seats along and plastered on a particularly winning smile.

“Hello, Hermione.” _Hermione_ – he thought, sidetracked – _that’s as strange as some of these wizard names. But it can’t be. Interesting._

“Hello, Tom.” Her expression was deeply suspicious, but he kept up the smile.

“You look nice today.”

She let out a startled coughing sound, which turned after a while into a sort of laugh. That wasn’t really what he had been hoping for.

“Good God, does that really work on some people?” He dropped the smile, glared and sat down. He was confused, and he didn’t like being confused. It made him angry. She didn’t shut up, which was even more irritating.

“Is this still about the kitchens?”

He couldn’t answer; didn’t really _know_ the answer. Settled for ignoring her, and took out _The Pure-Blood Directory._ He had just had an idea he wanted to check, mostly in the hope that he was wrong. _Marvolo. Simply a strange name, or a wizard name?_

“Oh, suit yourself.” Granger turned back to her own book, the title of which was obscured from his angle. He began to read, too, and the silence fell between them as was customary.

Her voice, several hours later, took him completely by surprise.

“I’ll tell you where the kitchens are if you tell me why you’re reading that book.”

Tom was not really used to people bargaining with him. It seemed like a poor deal, when he thought about it, since he was accustomed to getting what he wanted with nothing in return. He considered for a while.

“Malfoy was bragging about being related to Salazar Slytherin. I wanted to check he was lying.”

Her expression was thoughtful; he presumed it was in consideration of Abraxas’ ancestry.

“Opposite the door to the potions classroom, there’s a portrait of Merlin. That’s the entrance.”

She was gone before he could think to ask her to be more specific.

 

~oOo~

 

Death was bored. Gosh, if he had thought doing the soul-collecting was monotonous, that was nothing compared with _not_ doing it. It had only been a few weeks, but he had already been banned from the kitchen, having driven the house-elves nearly to distraction trying to learn how to bake. He had taken up hiking, muggle grocery shopping, chatting to rabbits, translating Shakespeare into Old Norse, and even cleaning (which the elves were also unimpressed about). He was almost considering Thestral-quidditch again, but squashed that thought violently and took a chocolate frog to keep his mind off it.

He added this latest card to the collection on the wall – it hadn’t taken him long to persuade his younger self that the ludicrous _Ragnarök_ tapestry was overdue for removal.

_Queen Maeve (circa 1 st century AD) taught magic to young wizards and witches in Ireland, long before schools such as Hogwarts were founded. She is still remembered in Muggle folk tales._

Now there’s a soul he would have loved to have been there to collect, quite apart from the frankly obscene entertainment value to be gained from someone dying _by being hit with cheese._ Witches were so much more independent back then – now it seemed to be all about laundry and cooking, terribly dull.

Death spent a pleasant few minutes remembering old Pythagoras telling him the Maeve-cheese-bath story. It was very tempting to summon him up, as it had been a while since they had spoken. Death liked old Pythagoras. It wasn’t everyone who could empathise with the job of soul-collecting – being, as it was, a rather rare occupation. Still, he must keep his word and not blow his cover. No one could be allowed to find out where he came from, and so he would proceed with the endlessly tedious occupation of _not being noticed._ Perhaps he would teach himself to play the violin or something.

 

~oOo~

 

It was exhausting, feeling angry all the time, but once the anger had ebbed away all that was left was a heavy depression which made her feel hollow and weak. Getting up each morning was a herculean effort, let alone going through the motions of the school routine, let alone being surrounded by children whose main interests were quidditch, sweets and minor bullying. She still could not see a way out of the situation; nothing, at least, which achieved her main objectives of seeing Ron and Harry again.

Many times, she considered running away, but what was the use in it? A life without her friends and family would not be made better by a change of scene. If anything, the old castle and its elves were her only source of comfort.

Then there was _him_. She felt some terrible need to stay close to Tom Riddle, in the way that one feels compelled to stare at the aftermath of a car crash while driving past in the other direction. But it was more than simple morbid fascination; Death’s words were still floating somewhere in the back of her sluggish mind.

_If Tom Riddle had never made a horcrux…_

Somehow the phrase had warped, corrupted, until it became “i _f Tom Riddle ever makes a horcrux…”_

_If Tom Riddle ever makes a horcrux, it will be **your** fault._

There was no running away, and there was no going back.

No going back.

_No going back._

 

~oOo~

 

After a week of standing aimlessly in front of Merlin’s portrait when no one else was looking, he finally came to the conclusion that Granger had been lying. It took him a while, largely because he hadn’t imagined her to be capable of it – besides, he could usually spot a lie. She had left so quickly that he hadn’t had enough time to look, with hindsight. The realisation of her deceit felt oddly like a betrayal, and somehow it didn’t seem relevant that he, too, had been untruthful. The anger settled back around him like a familiar blanket, and he began to _think_.

It was the end of September now and the nights were getting longer; the first chills of winter seemingly approaching though in London it would still be mild and autumnal now. Tom had never been to Scotland before; never been anywhere, really. He enjoyed the fresh air, the space, the solitude here. He enjoyed the bad weather and the increasing cold, too, because it kept people inside the castle whilst he was out walking.

Friday afternoon, and those few students not in classes were probably huddled around fires in common rooms; the biting wind was pelting incessant rain sideways against the windows. Tom turned the collar of his cloak up against the elements and walked swiftly through the quad, down the one path he had not yet travelled on his methodical examination of the grounds.

Several days of rain had made the path muddy, and he noticed smugly that his were not the first set of footprints in this direction, though none were going back up.

The path slipped out of sight of the castle below a line of trees, and he could now see that it led down to a part of the lake shore he had not yet visited. A small jetty protruded from a wooden hut in the distance, beyond which stood the boundary fence. The rain was beginning to seep cold through his cloak, so he hurried into the boathouse.

The previous footprints had clearly entered the building, but it was apparently empty. He approached the line of rowing boats tied along the jetty, and began to hear small sniffling sounds.

“I know you’re there,” he stated, in what he hoped was a confident but bored tone. He could guess who it was – who he _hoped_ it was, alone in an isolated spot very far from any teachers.

“Go away.” It was definitely Granger, sat in one of the boats judging by the direction of the voice.

“You lied to me.”

Granger became visible, several yards away in the final boat. Rain was driving in through the open end of the building, hitting her down one side, but she didn’t seem to be noticing.

“You lied to _me_ ,” she echoed. His heart rate inexplicably began to rise.

“How did you know?” He had to know. _Nobody_ could detect his lies; he had spent years perfecting it. The expression, intonation, eliminating the little tells that others made. She smiled that small, sad smile in a way that conveyed she had been expecting the question.

“You were reading it from start to finish. If you had been looking for Malfoy, you would have gone straight to ‘M’, then jumped about. No… you were reading the whole book, so you weren’t looking for a surname. General reference, then? Doubtful – you would have just told me so. More likely you were looking for a first name – not Tom, of course, that’s clearly Muggle – some other name, then.”

At some point during her speech, his eyebrows had made a bid for his hairline. He consciously wiped his expression, wanting nothing more than to shut her up, stop her irritating insights. The familiar anger drove his power so easily, as it always had done, and before he knew what was happening there was the sound of snapping rope and the tiny boat began to drift slowly away from the jetty.

Tom smiled. It was perfect. Giving the girl no time to jump out or retaliate, he willed the boat forward with all his strength. The pushing wave rose higher and higher and the boat swept out onto the lake until he could barely see it.

The wave broke with a crashing sound and the ripples that eventually returned were still powerful enough to make spray when they collided with the jetty. He stepped backwards, out of the way, and then looked out onto the water. The small boat was visible, a rounded speck in the distance, wooden hull face up and slowly disappearing below the surface.

There was no time to waste. He hurried away from the boathouse in the direction of the castle.

 

~oOo~

 


	9. Chapter VII: Elladora Ketteridge

A/N: Thanks for your comments and kudos. We've hit the first turning point in the story now, and I'd love to hear your thoughts so far.

 

~oOo~

 

Hermione was back in the surgery’s waiting room, thoughts racing but mood strangely calm again. It was altogether a unique sensation, being dead, and none of the oddness had disappeared with it being her second time experiencing it.

Her first train of thought was thankful; thankful that she could no longer feel the freezing lake or hear the roaring of the blood in her ears and her own choking gulps, inhaling nothing but water. Thankful that her brain was now functioning again, having been starved of oxygen and slowly shut down. There was no doubt about it – the killing curse had been a wonderful death compared with all of that.

When she could finally formulate a thought which was not centred on the horror of drowning, she began to wonder what Death would do. Was he truthfully incapable of returning her to her own time? Failing that, she considered if she would prefer to truly die or to go back – to Hogwarts in 1938 – to her lonely purposelessness, to _Tom Riddle._

There, on cue, the anger finally arrived. Oddly enough, it was not Tom Riddle who bore the brunt of it – though that would undoubtedly come later – but she herself. How stupid! How utterly _, embarrassingly_ foolish to allow him to catch her off guard like that! Perhaps she had created a false sense of security since he was only eleven. Perhaps she would have reacted faster if she hadn’t been so upset, and so sure she would not be found out in the boathouse. Neither of those things diminished her internal rage at all. She had known exactly who she was dealing with, the whole time, and yet she had dropped her guard enough to let him _kill her_. She felt so thoroughly ashamed that for the barest fraction of a second she was actually glad for the absence of Harry and Ron.

It was at about this time that the front door opened and Death shuffled inside.

There was a pregnant pause, in which Death swished his cloak theatrically as if trying to get some sort of reaction out of her. She was thoroughly confused, and wondered why he thought she would be scared of him. Death seemed to give up, shrugging, and spoke in a bored tone.

“On or back?”

Given the wider context, she wasn’t sure that she understood the question. She settled for an unambiguous answer.

“Send me back to 1998.”

Death did a double-take, and she became all the more confused. It was like he didn’t recognise her at all!

“What’s your name?”

Her eyebrows rose of their own accord. That seemed like the kind of thing that Death would probably know, even if he hadn’t recently met her and written her letters.

“Hermione Granger.”

There was a spark of understanding.

“Ah… _Ah._ Yes. I remember.” Eventually, when nothing more was forthcoming, she reiterated her original request. Death jumped slightly, as if he’d forgotten she was still there.

“What? Oh, no. No, I can’t. Impossible, I’m afraid – can’t be done. Wait here a minute.”

A sarcastic retort formed in her mind, but he was already gone. _What the hell?_

It was barely a few seconds before the door opened again, admitting a pair of figures this time. She couldn’t help herself.

“How many of you _are_ there _?_ ” Two identical chuckles emerged from identical hoods.

“Still as polite as before, I see,” remarked one, who she took to be the one she had originally met. He waved away her protests before she could voice them, and continued, “It’s just me. _Us_. A duplicate caused by the time travel, but never mind that. Why are you here?”

She utterly ignored his question.

“Send me back – to the future – you must be able to.”

“Gosh,” said the Death who had not recognised her, “I’ve heard more diversity from parrots.”

“ _Indeed,_ ” agreed the lookalike. “Very tiresome. Honestly, if I could go forward in time, I certainly wouldn’t have spent that night in the woods a few weeks ago. Damn back’s still acting up.”

“Mine too – not a surprise, at my age.”

“ _Your_ age? Think about _my_ age!”

Hermione could not suppress a huff of impatience, which drew the two hoods magnetically in her direction.

“She drowned,” supplied the younger Death, finally, with a tinge of smugness. “It was the Riddle boy. Capsized her rowing boat on the lake.”

Older Death _laughed._ Not just a little sound vaguely suggestive of amusement, but a full belly laugh. Soon it was both of them, and Hermione’s mood escalated from fractious to irritated and then on from irritated to angry.

“There is nothing funny about this, not a single thing! I want to go home. SEND ME HOME.” She was shouting now, becoming more and more annoyed at the infantile sight of both Deaths trying to control their sniggering. “For _fuck’s sake_ , shut up _._ ”

If Ron had used that particular word, she would have chastised him immediately, but in her anger she didn’t even register saying it until –

“ _Language._ ” Younger Death still sounded quite amused.

 “It’s hardly our fault that you can’t best an eleven year old,” added Older Death rather testily. “Honestly, I thought you’d be better. Perhaps I chose the wrong person, but either way – there’s no sending you back. Just get on with it and stop whinging.”

Her mind had gone horrendously blank, as kept happening in overwhelming situations. Not a single retort came to mind, because somewhere in her chest the last nail was just being hammered into the coffin of her dream of going home. Younger Death was speaking again, but she had stopped listening.

Something was waving in front of her, and she eventually snapped back to attention.

“I _said_ –” he repeated, “- you might find this to be topical.”

Younger Death waved the object at her again, and she saw that it was another stupid frog card.

_Elladora Ketteridge (1656 – 1729) is remembered for discovering the use of Gillyweed. After accidentally consuming the plant, Elladora nearly suffocated but recovered when she stuck her head into a bucket of water._

“Oh, very _funny_ ,” she bit out.

As Death returned the card to his cloak, Hermione noticed with some interest that his hand looked, well – normal. That was the only word for it. Not a skeleton, not some rotting piece of flesh, not greying or clawed or hooked or scaly; just a regular hand.

She did not have long to think about it, because the waiting room was falling away. With a shout of surprise and rage, she was plunged head first into freezing water.

 

~oOo~

 

Tom made his way to the dungeons swiftly and unseen. Once he had changed into dry robes, he hurried on to the library where he settled himself into his usual corner and surrounded himself with a huge pile of books and parchment. _Like I’ve been here the whole time._

At eleven, he was no stranger to the idea of breaking various rules. The way he saw it, everyone would want to if they could; it was just that everyone else was too stupid to manage it without getting caught.

There had only ever been one proper exception to his clean streak of avoiding punishment for doing whatever he wanted, and that exception was called Dumbledore. It didn’t seem to matter how much charm he directed at his Transfiguration professor, he would still be regarded with an expression of mistrust. It was vexing, and had taught him the danger of dropping his act; five minutes of real-Tom had not been erased in the old man’s head even by several weeks of charming-Tom. He was beginning to fear that it never would be.

Tom had spent a considerable amount of time wondering how exactly Dumbledore had known about his thefts at the orphanage. It left him uneasy and frustrated, because it forced him to consider the possibility that the man might somehow find out about this afternoon, too.

He had acted in anger, without really thinking. Had he killed Granger? Had he meant to? Certainly he had meant to cause harm, meant to punish her for her lie. If she lived, she would be able to tell on him, which was extremely problematic. If she was dead, and Dumbledore knew what had happened…

It was a no-win situation, and for the first time he began to feel a kind of remorse for his actions. He should have found a better way to punish her. He tried to focus on his Charms essay, but the words were twisting on the page and making no sense.

He needed to find out how Dumbledore knew. He needed to know more than him. It was the only way – be better, stronger, more powerful than everyone else. Then, nobody would be able to stand between him and – and what? – _him and anything_.

There was work to be done.

 

~oOo~

 

She kicked her legs and flailed her arms, fighting the weight of her saturated robes in order to bring her neck above the surface. It was so sudden; one second she had been safe in the waiting room and the next, fighting to keep from drowning a second time. Shock, rage and terror were competing to be her foremost emotion as she gasped for air and frantically looked around for the shore.

If she had been in a mood to be grateful to Death – and frankly she couldn’t imagine a more unlikely scenario – she might have been pleased that he had at least sent her back significantly closer to the boathouse than she had been before. Swimming fully clothed in a Highland loch in autumn was not something that could ever class as enjoyable even if one hadn’t had a very recent drowning experience.

It took all of her strength to haul herself out of the water and up onto the wooden jetty. Tom was nowhere to be seen. Since her most pressing concerns were therefore dealt with, she began to become more and more aware of the chattering of her teeth and of the rain still pelting against her back.

Through some miracle, her wand had remained in the inside pocket of her robes. She drew it, hand shaking wildly, and cast every helpful spell that came to mind. Charms to repel the rain, dry her clothes, warm herself up, repel prying eyes. Finally, she disillusioned herself and silenced her footsteps out of recently-acquired habit.  Not that it had stopped him finding her earlier.

Her satchel rested against the wall where she had fortunately dropped it before climbing into the boat. Another bizarre stroke of luck that she somehow felt was undeserved, given how careless she had been. She snatched it up and headed back to the castle, noting the footprints that already led up the path. It was some small comfort to know that he was in front rather than behind.

Inside, the corridors were busy with students, ringing with the echoes of Friday afternoon laughter. She slipped past everyone swiftly and silently, not pausing until she was safely inside the room of requirement.

4:28 read her clock. Hours until Astronomy class, and she was worn out in every possible way. A shower to remove all traces of the lake (and, oh, if only the memory would wash out so easily) then under the duvet, where safe and warm and _breathing_ never felt so good.

Sleep would not come. The charmed shadows moved steadily across the walls, lengthening, until the room was cloaked in darkness. Behind her eyelids, the darkness swirled and shifted, becoming the bottom of an empty ocean. After a while she could truly believe herself to be suffocating, gulping in water until she opened her eyes, coughing and gasping for real although the reason was simply imaginary. Once this had happened four or five times she could not stand it any longer.

A plan. She could not truly find rest until there was a plan. If there was no going home – and here, she forced down a wave of emotion and grasped desperately onto the thread of logic – if there was no going home, and there was no dying, then there was only going forward. She could run away, or live out this twisted idea of Death’s, pitting herself somehow against Tom.

There had never been any doubt between those alternatives, of course; every fibre of her being, every moral told her that the only option was to stay. Stay, and try somehow to protect everyone she had ever cared about, though they were not yet here. Stay, and maybe one day see them again, safe and happy even if it was without _her_.

A month without a clear purpose, lost and grieving, had been exhausting. She had tried to change the situation, tried research, tried pleading with Death – nothing. It was time to change tactic, give herself a goal to make the passage of time more bearable. An occupation so that the past (the future, in fact) could not absorb every waking thought.

Stopping Tom from making horcruxes seemed a long way off, until she truly considered it.

It would be stupid – less than helpful – to stop him creating horcruxes on a one-by-one basis. It would require her following him around forever, just in case, and surely would end up in some sort of showdown. Could she beat Voldemort in a duel? Well, yes, _now_. If she put her mind to it. But in five years’ time? What about twenty? It was uncertain at best.

One thing was absolutely clear in her mind, and that was that she could not murder a child in cold blood, for crimes not yet committed. Even if it was by far the simplest solution. Murder of any kind could not possibly be her first plan, could not possibly be a grand moral act.

No. Tom Riddle was on the road to power, to dark magic, to horcruxes – but he was not there yet. _A particular future is never fixed._ There must be a way to turn the tide, not through senseless violence. Some subtle way, some chain of events as yet unplanned. She needed to think, to learn, to observe. Beyond that, she needed to be prepared, to be confident, to keep herself one step ahead of Tom’s knowledge. To know she could always beat him, if that was what it took. Today had been an embarrassment, and she vowed not to let it happen again.

Hermione dragged herself out of bed and lit the lamps.

There was work to be done.

 

~oOo~


	10. Chapter VIII: Mirabella Plunkett

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the kudos and comments, and sorry this one was a bit slow coming. Plot pace will be accelerating now, and updates should be weekly (probably Mondays).

~oOo~

 

Hermione needed a plan, needed to research – so, naturally, there was only one place she thought to go. First thing on Saturday morning the library was blissfully quiet, dust swirling aimlessly in the first rays of autumn sunlight streaming in through the leaded windowpanes. She extracted a quill, ink and her longest roll of parchment and began to write hurriedly.

_Alchemy. Ancestry. Animagi. Arithmancy. Art. Astronomy._

In the absence of a plan, a list always seemed like a good place to start. There were a lot of subject groups marked between the gold dividers, and some sections she had barely looked at before. Of course, that was without even considering the restricted section, but she would assess all the books out here first. Writing headings down helped her decide which branches of magic might be most important. Somehow she didn’t think _Quidditch_ was going to be as useful as _Curses_ , _Healing_ or _Spell Creation_ in the fight against Tom Riddle. 

It occurred to her that her first solution to “Problem: Voldemort’s Horcruxes” was essentially to read every book in the library, and a wry smile fought its way onto her face. Ron and Harry would have made such fun of her.

She was so engrossed in the process of new research that she barely felt the stab of hurt that always accompanied thinking of her friends.

By the time a few other students had begun to meander in after breakfast, Hermione had copied down all ninety-six subject headings and checked out several tomes on Alchemy and Animagi – starting at the beginning seemed as sensible as anything. On a whim, she also took out _The Pure-Blood Directory_ , because she remembered Tom had been reading it. _Know thy enemy._

The weekend passed in a blur of note taking, and soon the first week of October was gone too. Finding a task had turned her empty existence into a frantic whirlwind; time had begun to accelerate again as she stopped counting the days she had been stuck in the past. She would rise early, take breakfast in the kitchens, do homework and research and spellwork practice and lessons and finally fall asleep under a book well after midnight.

October rolled on, the nights lengthening and the first frosts of winter settling over the grounds, and Hermione began to grow tired. A persistent cough began one Tuesday and never stopped, until it was accompanied by a fever that left her weak and shaking. The elves, noticing her growing thinner, were desperate to give her all her favourite things, but she had no appetite and found herself often merely pretending to eat.

By the end of the month, it was becoming difficult to drag herself to classes and hide her illness from the teachers. Still, all she could focus on was the work, telling herself firstly that it was simply a cold, and later on perhaps simply the flu, but either way it would get better eventually.

Halloween was a Monday – double potions in the morning and charms after lunch – and the levitating pumpkins and hordes of bats flying about were doing nothing to combat her dizzy tiredness. Professor Slughorn had been forced to vanish her headache draught after she added chopped valerian root instead of daisy root, and Professor Tofty had nervously suggested that she might prefer to just sit and watch after her _Incendio_ had forced an evacuation of the classroom for several minutes until the smoke cleared.

Since she never attended breakfast or lunch, Hermione forced herself to go down to the Halloween feast, fearing that the teachers would start to notice her absences. The door of her bedroom was now appearing at various different points in the castle, as part of her plan to shake off Tom’s possible surveillance, and today she found herself stepping out of it into a dead end of the dungeon corridor.

Seeing no one about, she was just about to remove her disillusionment charm when she heard voices around the next corner. It was Malfoy, presumably accompanied by the other Slytherins. She moved silently to catch up with them out of old habit, though their conversation turned out to consist of nothing more interesting than the upcoming meal. There were no alcoves in this corridor, so she settled for remaining invisible and following along.

A bit further ahead, the passage joined with another which Hermione had recently deduced led to the Hufflepuff common room. Martha Puddifoot, a mousy girl who sometimes partnered her in Defence class, rounded the corner.

Martha was a nondescript sort of child, slightly plump and rather timid. She was obviously daydreaming, because she had almost walked right into Lestrange before she looked up and jumped, startled.

“Sorry!” she squeaked, stepping backwards.

The Lestrange boy, dressed as usual in his immaculate robes and shining leather boots, regarded her with an expression of contempt.

“So you should be.” He drew himself up to his full height, sneering. “If my father had his way, _your kind_ wouldn’t even be allowed to come here.”

Martha looked angry and upset, and her way was now blocked by Malfoy and Burke. Hermione watched her eyes narrow.

“My mother is a witch!” Lestrange sniggered cruelly.

“Is that so? Well, _I’ve_ never heard of her. She must have been a pretty lousy one, if she had to go and live with a filthy _muggle._ Or perhaps she was too ugly to get a wizard? Yes… Runs in the family.” Malfoy and Burke were sniggering now, and Martha’s mouth opened and closed as her bottom lip started to tremble. Hermione noticed Tom, at the edge of the group, clench his fists at his sides.

For a moment, Hermione forgot she was supposed to be twelve, forgot she was no longer a prefect, and forgot she was avoiding Tom. She removed the disillusionment charm and pushed through the group.

“Leave her alone,” she said, putting her arm around the other girl and starting to move in the direction of the entrance hall.

“Abraxas! It’s your mudblood! Didn’t you have something for… _it_?” Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Malfoy’s smirking expression.

“Ah, yes. Just a little present, to say _thank you_ for that night by the Astronomy tower.” There were sniggers from the rest of the group, but she didn’t turn around, just ushered Martha in front of her and kept walking.

“Go away, Malfoy.”

She felt the jet of light hit her, right between the shoulder blades. At first, nothing seemed to be happening, and she had time to form a thought about how typical it was for a Slytherin to have cast while her back was turned. Then she thought _at least it wasn’t Tom this time_ , though logically she wasn’t really sure why it mattered. Then she thought s _hould I be more worried about this? Am I thinking clearly? I’m so tired._ Then, the pain began.

 

~oOo~

 

Death used to enjoy the thirty-first of October – at least, as much as any other day. Back, _before_ , he had once celebrated Samhain, and he remembered the firelight and the people gathering, the songs and the food and the shrieks of the small children who truly believed that the malevolent dead were gathered among them. Samhain was a night for tradition, for family and togetherness before the first true bite of winter. Shepherds and cowherds telling tales of a summer in the hills, farmers discussing the year’s crop gathered in. Young lovers in the woods, forgotten by their families amid the general frivolity.

He remembered dark hair cascading over pale skin, bared to the autumn moonlight, whispered words, kisses and sighs and shivers becoming cries and whimpers and eternal declarations as the warmth of joined magic melted the forming frost. He remembered a promise, made at the dizzying height of forbidden pleasure. A promise that could never have been kept.

There had been hundreds of Samhains since that particular night. Hundreds of times Death had reached out to the other side, called her name softly, begged her to come to him for even the shortest while. But his love was obstinate, and kept her resolution made so long ago in anger. She did not come to him.

Across the years, Death had watched Samhain become Halloween, until all the traditions of his mortal life were replaced and replaced again. Until children carved pumpkins and carried various strange things made of plastic and electric lights, eating food chemically preserved from last year’s harvest on the other side of the world and washing it down with liquid that came in coloured metal tins and smelled like… well, like nothing that could possibly be identified.

The world had moved on, and three hundred and sixty four nights of the year he forced himself to move on with it. But not tonight. Tonight he would gladly let the whole earth burn if only to relive that one evening, so long ago that _how could it still_ _hurt this way?_

A moving portrait looked mournfully up at him from the arm of his chair, sadly nothing like the beautiful face from his memory. 

_Mirabella Plunkett (b. 1839) was an English witch who fell in love with a merman. When her family forbade them to marry, she transfigured herself into a haddock and was never seen again._

At any other time, Death would have found endless comedy value in Mirabella’s description. On this particular evening, he merely concluded that he, too, would happily turn himself into a fish. If only that were what it took. He flicked the card angrily off the chair arm and into the fire.

 

~oOo~

 

Granger had not told anyone about the incident on the lake, and it bothered him like a persistent wasp that came straight back each time it was swatted away. What was she gaining from it? Surely she could not be saving it for blackmail, because who would believe her weeks later? They would simply ask her incredulously why she had not mentioned it at the time. She had turned up for dinner that evening, looking completely normal, and it had taken a while for him to wipe the surprise and confusion from his face.

Since then, she had clearly been avoiding him as carefully as he was avoiding her. They saw each other only in classes, where she rarely spoke and never to him. The rest of the time she made herself scarce, and the several times he had attempted to follow her had been met with a maddening lack of success.

As October wore on, he stopped worrying about the possibility of a punishment. Dumbledore had said nothing, and Tom felt an unprecedented level of smug satisfaction that the old man had not found out. He began to forget Granger and instead turned his attention to his housemates, observing their interactions. They tended to move as a pack, the Fudge boy trailing behind, and they all ignored him where possible. This had been his original intention, but he had just recently begun to see the value in winning them over; family name was important in this world – pure magical heritage. He could do nothing to change his own, could only try to hide it, and one day he would need allies.

One Saturday night, in the dormitory after curfew, he was provided with the perfect idea. The others had probably forgotten he was even there, since his bed curtains were drawn, and the conversation turned towards Granger. It was obviously a discussion they’d had plenty of times before.

“But, Abraxas, what if you got caught?” whined Fudge, and the sound of his voice made Tom fight not to grind his teeth in irritation. He heard Malfoy chuckle.

“Oh, I should think they’d thank me! Hardly anybody really likes the mudbloods – that’s what father says. Lots of them have to pretend to, but they’ll turn a blind eye to us. Father’s a governor, of course, not to mention the largest donor to the school fund. _And_ he’s on the Wizengamot. Besides, I won’t get caught. I’ve just got to think of the right thing.”

“Are you going to… to _kill_ her?” Fudge’s voice quavered nervously.

“Of course I’m not! I’m not stupid, am I? No one could get away with that.”

“Father says the time is coming. Minister Fawley is completely unprepared for war.” It was a deeper voice, belonging to Lestrange.

“Yes, Einar, we all know how much your father _loves_ Grindelwald.” There was a scuffle as Lestrange considered how to respond to the insult, but Malfoy cut him off again. “Calm down, I’m joking. But my father says Grindelwald’s going about it all wrong. Too many countries, not enough followers. He’ll never be able to win over the Wizengamot, even though the Minister’s an idiot.”

There was a pause – _probably because they can’t remember any more of their fathers’ opinions,_ thought Tom snidely. The voice to break the silence was Burke’s.

“In the shop, we’ve got plenty of things that could scare Granger. Or curse her.” Tom had often heard Conrad talk about his family’s shop. He had not seen it when he had visited Diagon Alley, and was now very curious.

“You’ll never get away with that,” said Lestrange, “Remember what happened last time one of your father’s things was found here. Dumbledore nearly had him sent to Azkaban.”

The ensuing uneasy murmurs informed Tom of two things: firstly, that his dislike of Dumbledore was shared by the others, and secondly, that the place called _Azkaban_ had the ability to totally kill a conversation. He made a mental note to find out about it.

“You could slip her a potion,” piped up Fudge, after a while.

“What potion, idiot? How am I going to brew a potion without someone noticing? Where am I going to get the ingredients, how am I going to give it to her? Don’t be stupid.” Peeking around the bed curtains, Tom saw Fudge quail under Abraxas’ withering stare.

“Curse her yourself,” suggested Dolohov, who rarely spoke and hence was Tom’s favourite of the bunch.

“Yes, quite.” Malfoy’s voice was clipped. “What curse?”

The ideas ranged from the banal to the utterly ridiculous, and Tom stopped listening. He began to see a way into the group, and their regard, with a side benefit of punishing Granger. It was too good to miss. He waited for Fudge to make another particularly stupid suggestion, then pushed the curtains aside and interrupted.

“I know the right curse.”

Fudge looked angry, Burke and Lestrange dubious, Dolohov expectant, Malfoy surprised. He relished the few seconds of silence, of _power_ , while all heads were turned to him. He let a conspiratorial smile form about his lips.

Tom raised his arm, palm facing up, and basked in their rapt attention as a ball of light formed in his open hand. A casual flick of the wrist sent it hurtling towards Fudge, and the round boy let out a squeak of surprise but had no time to move out of the way before he was hit in the chest.

Silence, while everyone wondered if something was going to happen.

“Is that the best you can do, Ridd–” Lestrange’s sneering insult was left to hang in the air as Fudge emitted a piercing scream.

Tom glanced dispassionately at the irritating boy, who had fallen off the bed and was now writhing on the floor. After a while, since he was getting bored and sensed his point had been made, he ended the spell. Fudge gasped, spluttered and retched, plastering a nearby rug with the contents of his stomach.

When Tom emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later, Fudge’s bed curtains were drawn but did nothing to muffle the sniffling sounds coming from within. He sneered; even Amy Benson had coped better than that. Still, it was useful to have a test subject, because it would be clearly detrimental to his longer term goals to have to curse Malfoy or Lestrange… too often, anyway.

They were all desperate to learn the spell, of course. Just like that, they were hooked, drunk on the promise of knowledge and power and not once thinking of his muggle connections. How very simple it was, to bend them to his will.

Teaching them the spell, on the other hand, was utterly not-simple. Imbeciles, the lot of them, raised on wand magic and incantations. Somewhere at the back of his mind he could see Granger’s small form, sat beneath a tree, and hear her pensive voice:  w _e learn to understand our own magic in a way they never do_. She was right, of course. But there was nothing to be gained siding with the… _mudbloods._ He tried the word inside his head, rolled it around. The way to win was to fit in with these powerful families, let them think he agreed with them, have them accept him into the fold. Granger was nothing.

Hours later, only Dolohov had managed the beginnings of the ball of light, much to Malfoy’s anger. They tried again the next night, and the next, and the next. As every day passed with him possessing a skill they could not master, so their respect and their dependence on him grew. He could not have planned it better.

In the end, Abraxas had come to him, choking on his pride, and begged him to be the one to cast the spell. Said he would be in his debt, he wouldn’t forget it, Granger deserved to be punished. _Checkmate._

Abraxas even told him that Granger must think that he was the caster – that he didn’t want word to get round that he couldn’t master a spell. _You mean, you’ll have to take the blame if we get caught._ Tom tamped down on his manic grin and forced a serious expression. Having powerful friends was going to be even easier than he thought.

 

~oOo~

 


	11. Chapter IX: Merlin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for comments & kudos, I appreciate it. More Tom in the next chapter!

~oOo~

 

When Hermione opened her eyes, she half expected to see the old magazines and dental floss adverts of the surgery’s waiting room. Instead, she was staring up at a vaulted ceiling. The generic bitter smell of healing salves and potions was in the air; combined with the white sheets covering her, the location was plainly the hospital wing. Pale morning light was filtering through a window behind her, which was strange, because hadn’t she been on the way to the Halloween feast?

She swallowed hesitantly, as her throat felt dry and scratchy, and this brought on a bout of familiar coughing followed by a spasm of chest pain.

The coughing had evidently alerted someone, because footsteps began approaching. A plump woman, perhaps in her fifties, appeared through the gap in the curtains surrounding the bed.

“Ah, Miss Granger – you’re awake.” Hermione was not sure if she was supposed to respond to such an obvious statement – the woman had a kindly face, though something about her manner suggested she had much more important things to do than stand around chatting. She replaced some of the vials on the bedside table and opened the window wide before speaking again.

“I’m Nurse Jeffries,” she said, in a solemn tone that somehow served to warn that bad news would immediately follow. “I’m afraid that you’re really not well. You’re going to be here for quite a while.”

Hermione wondered how long _quite a while_ was, but settled for saying, “What happened?”

The nurse clicked her tongue with displeasure. “What happened, young lady, is that you collapsed in the dungeon corridor. You should have come to me a long time ago – your friend Tom says you’ve been coughing for weeks now.”

Several things about that were ringing alarm bells, but she was too tired to query it now. “I thought it was just a cold,” she said lamely.

“A cold! Sweet Merlin. You’ve got _tuberculosis_ , girl, which I’d have thought might have occurred to you given your poor father. We’ve had to have the whole rest of the school tested for it.”

The nurse’s displeasure with her barely registered. Instead, she remembered Death’s letter, and the phrase _burial at the Sanatorium_. Of course, she had thought it was a bit strange at the time, but had been too busy being generally upset and angry to give it another thought. Her brain now helpfully supplied that a sanatorium was a special hospital for TB patients.

Nurse Jeffries was still talking; something about having everyone traipsing through the hospital wing for a week, and thankfully none of them had contracted it after all.

Hang on. A week?

“What day is it?”

The nurse raised her eyebrows, obviously a bit irked at being cut off in mid-sentence.

“Wednesday. November the ninth.”

Hermione was not really at her mental peak, but she did still remember the date of Halloween. The older woman regarded her shocked expression with a hint of amusement.

“Yes, you’ve been here for nine nights already - I’ve had to keep you under a strong sleeping potion to stabilise you. You need nourishment and fresh air now to give your body the best chance to fight the disease.”

The wind coming in through the window was already making Hermione shiver viciously.

“What do you mean? Can’t you treat it?”

The nurse frowned, and it occurred to Hermione that she probably ought to have known more about the thing that apparently killed her own father.

“I’m afraid there is no treatment, dear, even with magic. We’ve just got to let nature take its course.”

This was the singular least comforting thing Hermione had ever heard, which was particularly impressive considering that she was now immune to dying. Nurse Jeffries was bustling around her again, saving her from trying to make a reply.

“I need you to get out of bed, if you can, so that I can weigh you.” Her body felt leaden as she tried to sit up and slide her legs out from under the covers. Stepping onto the scales seemed to take all of her energy.

“Just about four stone and thirteen pounds. Hop off, then. I’m going to send a house elf up with some breakfast, and it’s extremely important that you eat as much as you can. We need get some weight on you.”

She managed to nod vaguely as she sunk back onto the bed, the nurse plumping the pillows and helping her to sit upright.

“It- it’s so cold, please, can I have a blanket?” The air hitting the back of her neck gave her the sensation of being sat in a freezer.

“I’m sorry, dear. I know it feels terrible, but it will help. Breakfast will warm you up.”

Breakfast was bacon and eggs and toast, eaten in tiny nibbles under the watchful eye of Tiggy the elf, and it utterly did not warm her up. When the nurse returned with a sleeping draught, she took the proffered oblivion gladly.

 

~oOo~

 

The next time Hermione awoke, the room was in shadow but for a slice of bright moonlight filtering through the still-open window. A clear sky meant the temperature was glacial and she burrowed deeper under the covers.

In the silence, with ten days of sleep behind, her mind began to feel sharper. She thought about Ron and Harry, all of her old Professors and classmates, her Mum and Dad. Every time somebody here mentioned her deceased parents, she felt oddly reassured – after all, her real parents were not even born yet.

Her fictitious father had died of tuberculosis. Her _fictitious_ father. And yet, here she lay, with a burning chest pain and terrible cough and wasting away with an illness that was undoubtedly _real._ This presented her logical mind with a series of options. Number one: she had just happened to catch TB, by coincidence. This seemed about as likely as aviating farmyard animals. So, number two: she had genuinely caught it from her ‘father’ ( _when_?) or number three: she was given it on purpose, when she became eleven again.

A back story so watertight that she had been given a deadly disease merely to corroborate it?

If there was anyone likely to think such a thing was a good idea, it would naturally be Death.

“I hope you’re pleased with yourself.” She spoke quietly, to the empty room, to the universe in general, in the way one might speak aloud to a deceased friend on the offchance of them being able to hear. There was a pause, in which she took a drink from a glass of water on the bedside table.

A small object caught her eye as it floated down from somewhere above, coming to rest on the sheets covering her stomach. She reached for it with surprise, which rapidly gave way to incredulity and then resignation but surprisingly little anger. Her eyes, having adjusted to the moonlight, could just about make out the writing.

_Merlin, sometimes called the Prince of Enchanters, was the most famous wizard who ever lived. He is best known as a member of the court of King Arthur, but little is known about his life._

The idea of Death leaving a calling card seemed quite reasonable – if a little cliché – but the idea of that card being literally a card, a _chocolate frog_ card, was ludicrous at best. She had no idea what to make of it, just rolled her eyes and turned it over idly. On the other side, luminous familiar handwriting covered the picture of Merlin.

_Never underestimate the power of the ultimate proof._

 

~oOo~

 

By the third time Hermione awoke in the Hospital Wing, on Thursday morning, the novelty had well and truly worn off. She was frozen and uncomfortable, everything hurt and there was absolutely nothing to do to take her mind off it. The Merlin card was gone, and she might have thought she had imagined the whole thing if it weren’t for the belief that her subconscious could never come up with something so stupid.

After Tiggy had once again supervised her eating breakfast, she asked the little elf if she knew where her belongings had been left. Madness was a real possibility if she had to spend the whole day in bed without a book.

“Miss Hermione is supposed to rest,” said Tiggy, clearly in a state of some conflict.

“Were you told not to bring me my things?”

“Mistress Jeffries says Miss Hermione must not to be straining herself, or she gets poorly.” The tips of Tiggy’s ears drooped downwards, and she wore a desolate sort of expression, shuffling her tiny feet. Hermione could not bear to upset her.

“Oh. Never mind. Perhaps you could ask Nurse Jeffries if she thinks I can have a book to read. Just for a while. Only, there’s nothing to do here.” Tiggy’s expression brightened slightly.

“Tiggy will ask.” The elf disappeared with the breakfast tray, and she was once again left alone with her thoughts.

Perhaps the time here was a blessing in disguise; going to classes had been extremely tedious, after all. After everything else that had happened, this was a picnic really. No use getting upset about it. Just have to make the best of it, use the time wisely. No books at the moment – _think –_ just _think_ , as should have happened first before diving headlong into the library.

Hermione had always had the tendency to throw herself into research with the blindness of the over-eager, berating herself later on for not considering the problem more carefully before beginning. She simply struggled to dampen her initial enthusiasm long enough to think things right  through, even though she knew it would likely save time in the long run.

So, that morning for the first time, she closed her eyes and simply thought. She thought of Tom Riddle, of his childhood and his motives and his future. She thought of the powerful families, the Malfoys and Lestranges and Fawleys and Macmillans. She thought of politics, the Wizengamot and Grindelwald and Hitler. She thought of Dark magic and defence, charms and curses, of the nature of power. She thought of Hogwarts, the Chamber of Secrets, the merpeople and the centaurs and the house elves. She thought of duels and outcomes and the passage of time and the nature of dying. She thought of Death and chocolate frogs and the Hallows. She thought of horcruxes and sea caves and giant snakes and the sword of Gryffindor. She thought of Hogsmeade and secret passages and the room of requirement and vanishing cabinets.

Tiggy and the nurse came and went, believing her to be asleep.

When Hermione finally opened her eyes, she felt a kind of peaceful clarity that she had only previously experienced in the surgery waiting room – while dead. The future was uncertain, but she could prepare. At the top of the list: make a Marauder’s Map. Become an animagus. Remove horcrux books from the library. Find the Deathly Hallows. Develop wandless magic. Develop non-verbal magic.

It was probably a bit too much work for this afternoon, but she would get right on it.

 

~oOo~

 

Thursday became Friday and Friday became Saturday, and Hermione began to grow restless. The pain in her chest was perhaps a little better, and she had gained a pound which seemed to please the nurse. Encouraged, she had asked how much longer before she could go back to lessons.

“Dear me,” came the response, delivered with an expression which was perhaps meant to be reassuring, “it’s going to be several months at best, until you’re not contagious. The last time someone caught it here, they were sent home for nearly two years. The headmaster’s been talking with your uncle, though, and in light of your circumstances it’s been decided that you can stay with us. The teachers are going to send up your homework once you’re a bit better – we’ll make you your own little space up here.”

There was a touch of forced over-positivity to the speech, which spoke a very loud subtext. _If you ever get better. If you don’t die first._ Hermione had no idea how to respond. Eventually she said:

“Can I have my things back now? I’m feeling better, I won’t overstretch myself.”

The nurse considered for a moment – perhaps deciding whether she was close enough to death’s door to be eligible for some version of _oh-okay-what-the-hell-you’re-going-to-snuff-it-anyway_.

“Well, I think it’s a bit soon still… maybe in a couple of days, if you put on another pound.” She wavered, looking undecided. “Erm, the house elf was offering, I think, to _read_ to you.”

The older witch’s opinion on house elves and reading was very easy to determine, and Hermione couldn’t help herself from narrowing her eyes.

“Please tell _Tiggy_ that that would be very nice.” Nurse Jeffries looked surprised and affronted, but made a sort of nodding gesture before bustling away.

It was barely a minute before the little elf appeared, clutching a well-worn copy of a book Hermione would recognise anywhere. She felt a rush of affection and the familiar sadness at how so many other people seemed to treat the creatures.

“Tiggy! Oh, it’s lovely to see you. Is that _Tales of Beedle the Bard?_ ”

Tiggy nodded enthusiastically, and hopped up onto the chair by the bed. The book, though not particularly large, completely obscured her from view when she opened it. The sight was comically endearing.

“There were once, _three brothers_. who were. _trav-el-ling_. along a lone-ly. w-winding road at. T-. T-”

“Twilight,” said Hermione, gently.

“Oh! Bad Tiggy, _stupid_ Tiggy. Tiggy will-”

“No!” she interrupted. “No, Tiggy, I’m sorry. It was lovely reading. I was just trying to help. Nobody gets it right all the time.”

A little snout appeared over the top of the book.

“Miss Hermione likes Tiggy’s reading?”

“Of course I do. It’s very kind of you.”

There was a pause, punctuated by tiny sniffling sounds. Hermione considered all the things she knew about house elves, before saying carefully,

“Tiggy, I’d really like to see the pictures. Would you mind sitting up here next to me?”

Tiggy’s big green eyes looked thoughtful, but then she carefully clambered onto the bed and opened the book out between them.

When the elf began to read again, slowly, Hermione made sure to look happy and didn’t interrupt even when some of the words got mixed up or came out a bit wrong.

“-and then he. _gree-ted._ Death as an. old. fri- _friend_. and went with him. Gladly. and, as. e- equals. they de-part-ed. this. life.”

Tiggy took lots of big breaths and looked very proud of herself.

“Thank you,” said Hermione, after a while. “That’s my favourite one.”

“Tiggy’s favourite too!” Then she added, thoughtfully, “The other elfs is saying it silly. Saying it not real.”

“Do you think it’s real?”

Tiggy looked uneasy, as if she might be about to be laughed at.

“I think it’s real,” she reassured. Tiggy grinned.

“Tiggy hears stories, about student who has special cloak. Tiggy goes to look. _Bad_ Tiggy, sneaking about in wizard’s things. Tiggy had to put out kitchen fire with bare hands.”

Hermione winced.

“It’s normal to be curious,” she said, trying to calm the elf down. “It was Fleamont, wasn’t it? Fleamont Potter. I won’t tell anyone.”

Tiggy’s eyes went wide, and she gave a tiny nod before shutting the book and clambering down from the bed. 

Just before she turned to go, she looked up sheepishly and said, “Tiggy reads to Miss Hermione again tomorrow?”

Hermione smiled.

“I’m already looking forward to it,” she said, and found it to be entirely true. Tiggy disappeared, beaming.

 

~oOo~

 

Reading with Tiggy quickly became the highlight of each passing day, and she found that after a few sessions the elf would let herself be corrected and started to get noticeably better. Hermione felt an almost unreasonable amount of pride, and again wondered why more wizards did not acknowledge the intelligence of their servants. Sometimes she scolded herself for spending time with Tiggy instead of doing something more obviously useful, but it just felt important somehow.

In the last week of November, the first blizzard of winter arrived through the open window. Hermione felt a vague hope that she might be allowed to close it, but no such luck; Nurse Jeffries simply cast a charm to repel the snowflakes. The manic shouting of the season’s opening snowball fight drifted up through the frozen air, and for a while she allowed herself to succumb to her own loneliness. It was a sensation far sharper than any symptom of the disease.

A scattering of snowflakes had made their way onto the flagstone floor before the repelling charm was cast, and as she watched they began to rise and clump together. It was strange, but she always found pure magic easier to achieve when very upset or stressed. She focussed hard, willing the little pieces into a ball. When this did indeed happen, her excitement must have dropped her concentration because the ball fell back to the floor with a tiny _crunch_.

Her energy felt totally drained by that minor force of will; it was not clear whether it was entirely due to the illness or merely lack of ability or practice. In her mind’s eye, a giant wave crashed over a tiny boat with a deafening roar. Tom’s power was so much greater than hers, and though she had plenty of other advantages over him, she was desperate to catch up. Hogwarts taught spells, and she was good at them, but what she needed more was _magic._ A deeper understanding of magical power in all of its many ancient forms. There was an endless amount of work ahead; a heavy burden to bear, alone.

Outside the hospital wing, school life continued as it always had done. Almost nobody even remembered the small, quiet girl who had gone away. None ever visited. Hermione spent her days planning and thinking and learning, trying to be grateful for the peace. Not for the first time, she wondered what the future would hold.

 

~oOo~

 


	12. Chapter X: Hector Fawley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your kudos and comments, I really appreciate it. At this stage, I'm particularly interested in your view of Death and how much you'd like to see of him at the moment. Any thoughts?

~oOo~

 

“Father says it’s a disgrace they’re letting her stay here. He considered moving me to Durmstrang, but he says it isn’t a good time, what with the war coming. Honestly, I’d prefer that to some vile _muggle_ disease.”

Abraxas and Einar had been having the same conversation every other day since Granger had been admitted to the hospital wing, and it was getting old. He tuned them out with difficulty, since they were walking one on each side of him. Being flanked by his… _friends_ … certainly had some advantages, but he still preferred to be alone. Today, though, that had been impossible – they were determined to drag him along to the fair.

Tom had seen a fairground over the summer; they hadn’t been allowed in, not having the money or the time, but he had seen it all the same. It was made up of lots of coloured tents next to the beach – candy floss and a carousel and a helter skelter. Donkey rides on the sand.

In his mind, he was struggling to imagine any of those things in the middle of Scotland on the sixteenth of December. The Headmaster had simply announced that there would be no lessons on the last day of term, instead, a _frost fair_. It didn’t seem to come as a surprise, particularly to the older students, from which he inferred that he was one of the only ones who didn’t know what to expect.

Tom didn’t like not knowing what to expect – but he also didn’t like revealing ignorance, so he refrained from asking anyone.

“Just drop it,” said Einar, who was apparently getting bored of the subject too. “Slughorn says she won’t be allowed back to lessons for ages, even after she tests clear. The governors are too scared. There’s no way anyone’s going to catch it.”

When his spell had hit Granger, she went out cold almost immediately. For a fraction of a second, he experienced a feeling of terror that he might have just killed her in front of a large handful of witnesses. Nobody had ever reacted that way to the spell – all it did was cause the sensation of pain – some got sick after, but there was never any serious damage. He had even cast it on himself once out of curiosity.

After a few seconds, in which the Hufflepuff girl began screaming, he had remembered to end the spell, but Granger remained unmoving. In the confusion, he eventually arrived at the perfect solution: Professor Slughorn. His office was very near, and he was predictably sympathetic to _poor Tom_ , the boy who had found his _friend_ collapsed on the floor in the corridor.

It was an easy ride after that; one minute he had been worried about getting expelled for killing the girl, the next he was being applauded for helping her get to the hospital wing. It was clear that half the teachers now thought that he was Granger’s only friend – all he had to do to maintain the ruse was visit once every few days and ask if he could see her yet. Nobody else ever did.

_Sorry, dear,_ the nurse always said. _I can’t let anyone near her just yet. Headmaster’s orders. He’s very worried that someone else might get ill._

Snow was falling outside, as it had been on and off for a few weeks now. Having mastered a warming charm, he felt pretty smug when the others began to shiver in their expensive scarves. They walked briskly, crossing the quad and stepping out onto the lawns.

Tom liked to think that he was a difficult person to surprise, especially after the last few months, but the view that rose up before him was, well, _surprising_.

The lake, which had been choppy and steely-gray just yesterday, was flat and bright white – though the more noteworthy thing was that there were currently at least a hundred people _stood_ on it. Well, moving across it. Nearby on the shore a large marquee had been erected, the canvas charmed with swirling snowflake motifs. A sweet sort of smell was wafting up from it, and the jumbled sound of dozens of shouting, laughing, whooping voices was getting louder.

Abraxas and Einar were still walking fast, and he lengthened his stride so as not to get left behind. As they descended the hill, the people on the lake came into focus and he could see skates on their feet.

He had read about ice skating in books, of course – even seen pictures – but it was so far out of his sphere of awareness he had never imagined that real people actually did it. Up close, it looked increasingly terrifying. The others had begun yet another bragging conversation, this time about the skating parties at their stupidly huge houses. He realised with a sinking feeling that he was the only one that had never tried it before. The idea that even Fudge might be better than him at something was like a physical pain. He tried to think of an excuse that would allow him to leave – without becoming a laughing stock – but his mind was horribly blank, and the marquee was coming closer and closer.

Inside, an obscene number of levitating Christmas decorations made it hard to move around. The others headed straight for Professor Tofty, who was stood in front of a small mountain of skates. He tried to lose himself in the crowd around the stand giving out toffee apples, but Conrad noticed and called him back over.

The Burke boy was clearly not as rich as Malfoy or Lestrange, though Tom gathered that his family was highly respected. He did not seem to be motivated by money or power, and Tom struggled to know what to make of him. Sometimes he caught him staring, and it was a bit disconcerting.

“It’s easy,” Conrad said, under his breath. Nobody else could hear, but Tom’s fists clenched all the same. How did Burke know he was nervous? He could think of no response, and settled for acting like he hadn’t heard.

“Don’t try to walk, just push off and glide. Don’t look at your feet. If you hold someone’s hand, it’s much easier – the girls will think it’s normal if you ask one of them. That’s what the others will do.”

It was such an effort to process the information without displaying an expression, but he managed it. He nodded stiffly, trying to be nonchalant. Why would Conrad be telling him this? It seemed like good advice, but maybe it was a trick.

All too soon, they were being ushered behind the mountain of skates where another opening in the tent led directly onto the ice. Abraxas went through first, with an extravagant flourish that did nothing to calm Tom’s frantically beating heart. Einar was just as graceful. If only he could think of something, something at least to distract from his imminent horrendous failure.

 

~oOo~

 

As the weeks passed, Hermione began to feel better. The cough was still there, and the pain, but a bit less than before. Even the freezing temperature, though extremely unpleasant, no longer bothered her quite so much. With her returning strength came her focus, and soon she was making good progress with her wandless, non verbal spells.

Her teachers, though they never visited in person, began to set her some essays from the first week of December. The tediousness of completing them was nothing compared with the fact that it meant she was finally allowed all of her things back – Nurse Jeffries, true to her word, had transformed the end of the hospital wing into her personal area. Where at first she had only her bed and bedside table, surrounded by the curtain, there was now three beds’ worth of space cleared and separated from the rest of the ward by a transfigured partition wall.

The extension of her space meant she had acquired the hospital wing’s largest window, which allowed a view of a good slice of the grounds. A desk had been placed in front of it, and it was a pleasant place to work. With all her meals brought to her, she could almost imagine she was in some sort of hotel if she tried hard enough.

Every day after breakfast, in another recent improvement, Tiggy would return to accompany her on a walk. It was oddly liberating, strolling through the grounds while everybody else was stuck in lessons. Ironically, it was warmer outside, too – or rather, she was allowed to wear her outer robe and walk fast enough not to feel the chill.

On the last day of term, the nurse was reluctant to let them outdoors, but they promised to stay well away from the fair.

“Miss Hermione is not getting to have any of the fun things,” said Tiggy sadly, once she had apparated them to the edge of the forest. It was an area they had walked in relatively little previously, and Hermione sensed the elf was wary of the dark trees.

“Oh, Tiggy, it’s okay. I’d just as soon be here with you.” The little elf stopped dead, gazing up at her with an incredulous sort of expression. Then, quite without warning, she burst into tears. Hermione had never really got the hang of elf moods – never really known the right thing to say. Every time she upset Tiggy, she had visions of S.P.E.W and how none of the elves in her original time had ever wanted to talk to her.

“No! Don’t cry! I’m sorry. I just meant - it’s nice, to be with a friend. Please...” She patted the little creature’s back in a way she hoped was affectionate, and eventually the great big sobs subsided into occasional sniffles.

“M-miss Hermione is Tiggy’s f-friend?”

“ _Of course_ we’re friends. Friends enjoy spending time together, and they care about each other and they help each other out. That’s what we do… except you don’t let me help you out very much.” Tiggy’s eyes were even wider than usual.

“B-bad Tiggy?” She was shifting from foot to foot, wringing her Hogwarts tea towel between her hands and Hermione recognised the signs of a punishment coming on. It was encouraging that the elf had asked it like a question, though, instead of just jumping straight into hitting herself.

“No, silly. You’re a good friend. And you know what I’ve said – no punishments. That’s not the way friends are.” Tiggy smiled a shy sort of smile.

“Miss Hermione is the nicest witch Tiggy has met.”

They began to walk along in a companionable sort of silence, snow crunching satisfyingly underfoot. After a while, Hermione said,

“Can you tell me about the frost fair?”

As it turned out, there was no subject Tiggy liked more. She spoke with great enthusiasm about how the Professors froze over part of the lake and made it all shiny, and then everyone would skate on it until they got too cold to carry on. And then they would come into the tent, where there was a big charmed fire with real salamanders, and have soup and sing carols with the orchestra. And there would be sweets and snowball fights and snowman competitions and even the Professors would join in. And when it got dark there would be fireworks and afterwards they would all go inside for a special supper.

By the time the little elf had finished regaling her with anecdotes from last year’s festivities and taken several big breaths, the lake had come into view. Though it was barely nine in the morning, there were already a handful of older students swirling gracefully around the ice. It looked like fun; she had tried it once, at the birthday party of a friend from primary school, but that was quite literally in another lifetime.

 Hermione did not notice Tiggy had left her side until she returned with a _crack_. A toffee apple on a stick was clutched proudly in her fist, and she held it out, beaming.

“Oh! Thank you.” To be honest, even if her parents hadn’t lectured her repeatedly about the dangers of excessive sugar consumption, she wouldn’t have been particularly keen on toffee apples. Nevertheless, she took it gladly so as not to seem rude. It was very sweet for Tiggy to try and include her in the fair, after all. They meandered down towards the lake, Hermione passing down chunks of toffee as they broke away from the apple. The way Tiggy ate them indicated that the treat itself was as novel and enjoyable as the method by which it was acquired.

A marquee was visible now, and a steady line of students were filtering down the hill towards it.

“Mistress Jeffries would not be wanting us to be going any further,” said Tiggy, and Hermione somehow appreciated the way she had chosen to say ‘us’, rather than ‘you’. She nodded. Just ahead, the line of trees they were following met the water’s edge, and it was not much further along that the patch of ice began, stretching as far as the eye could see. The ice was separated from the water only by a raised edge a couple of feet high, and she wondered idly if anyone had ever fallen in.

It was chilly outside, when one stopped moving about, but since the indoor alternative was just as cold she decided to settle in for a while and watch the skaters. Some of the pairs were really quite good. She wondered what had happened to the tradition – Ginny and Luna would have loved it, though perhaps Ron and Harry wouldn’t have been so keen.

A range of surprised and angry noises erupted from the area where the lake met the rear of the marquee – turning her head, she made out a small heap on the ice. The heap rearranged itself, rather ungracefully, until two figures began to try and stand up. They were joined, unsteadily, by another figure who she did not struggle to recognise even at that distance. Tom. He offered his hand to help up someone who turned out to be Lestrange, and she could imagine the smug look he would undoubtedly be wearing. The second figure did not receive a helping hand, which meant it must be Fudge. For a brief moment she felt sorry for the unfortunate boy.

Tom and Lestrange happened to be heading towards her, and she could see that they were following Malfoy. The two purebloods were moving effortlessly, posture rigid. Tom was doing his best to emulate their movements, with a surprising amount of success. She gritted her teeth. Being away for so many weeks meant that she had been unable to observe him worming his way into their circles. It needed to be stopped.

 

~oOo~

 

There was a sickening crunch as Fudge collided with Lestrange, then the ice. Although the effect was precisely as he had intended – allowing him to glide out of the tent unobserved – the nature of the sound was still disturbing. Who knew that water could become so particularly _solid_?

Helping Einar to his feet was a gloating opportunity too good to miss, and the boy was so preoccupied with checking nobody was laughing at him that he didn’t even seem to notice Tom’s complete lack of skating ability. As they went to catch up to Abraxas, he observed their movements and copied carefully.

Soon they were joined by Antonin, Conrad and Fudge, and the conversation turned to partners.

“You should ask Aisha,” said Fudge. “I’ve seen you looking at her.” Abraxas made a scoffing noise.

“Don’t be ridiculous. She spends all day hanging around with that mudblood. We had the Black cousins at the Manor over the summer; I’ll ask one of them.”

Lucretia and Walburga Black seemed to come up in Abraxas’ conversation quite a lot. They were in the year above, and Tom thought that they seemed dull and vain – but then, he thought that about most people.

“Walburga is promised to Lucretia’s brother,” said Einar, as if announcing the weather. “Ask Lucretia. She’s better looking anyway.”

Over the weeks of being – often unwillingly – included in their discussions, Tom had learned a lot about the elite of Wizarding society. It seemed that arranged marriages were very common, and the pool of acceptable partners was incredibly small. While he could never imagine wanting to marry, there were girls here whose influence might benefit him quite nicely, so he would be stupid not to take this opportunity to win one over.

Seeing his quarry arrive onto the ice, he moved in her direction and arranged his most flattering smile onto his face. As he passed her friends, he nodded politely which seemed to induce a fit of giggling.

“Cassandra, would you allow me to escort you?” It was a line he’d just heard an older boy use, and it must have been the right thing to say, because the Fawley girl was blushing.

“Oh – Tom! Of course.” She offered her hand, and her glove felt soft against his bare skin. It had probably cost more than every piece of clothing that he had ever owned.

“You look particularly lovely today,” he said, and she looked surprised and blushed even further. Perhaps that type of compliment was not usual – he didn’t have a lot of reference – but it seemed to produce the desired sort of effect. She patted her short blonde hair nervously with her free hand; it was smooth at the roots but curled into a neat style at her neck, held back from her face with a pin decorated with miniature snowflakes. How maddeningly appropriate.

They began to skate, and Conrad was right; it was easier with a partner. He stopped thinking, instead just following the rhythm and keeping up with the pair circulating in front of them. It was almost enjoyable.

The last thing he was aware of was the ice approaching at an alarming rate.

 

~oOo~

 

“ _Cassie_! My _darling_. It’s alright now, you’re safe, Mummy and Daddy and Helena are here and we’re going to take you home and you’ll be right as rain in time for Christmas. I promise, _oh_ , my poor _baby_ –”

The charmed partition wall did nothing to prevent the shrill babbling of Mrs Fawley from reaching Hermione’s exasperated ears. From time to time, she heard a man’s voice attempt to say something consoling, but it was worse than ineffectual.

In truth, as stuck up and bigoted as Cassandra Fawley undoubtedly was, she had not meant to hurt her. The plan, such as it had been, was merely to embarrass Tom in front of those he was trying to impress; the whole skating situation was ideal, nobody would suspect any cause of the accident other than lack of skill. The fact that his fall had occurred at just the right moment to fling Cassandra out of the turn and straight over the edge of the ice was merely… unfortunate.

Apart from having been dunked in a freezing lake, there was nothing wrong with her anyway. It was certainly no cause for that much whinging. Tom, whose wrist had been broken, hadn’t said a word.

When the chattering finally died down, she turned back to the Defence homework she had just started, and noticed a chocolate frog card had appeared on top of it.

_Minister Hector Fawley was first elected to office in 1925, and says his proudest achievement to date is the creation of the Department for Magical Culture and the Arts. In his spare time, Minister Fawley enjoys ballroom dancing with his wife and watching quidditch with his two daughters._

She turned it over, expecting to see some sort of flippant comment in Death’s cursive script. There was nothing.

Under the heading _Correct Duelling Etiquette_ , she wrote hastily _why are you here?_

There was a slight delay, in which she heard the faintest huff of annoyance before her quill was stolen out of her hand. Letters appeared shakily on the parchment – he must be leaning over her shoulder, and she had the oddest urge to reach out and touch him. To prove she wasn’t making it up.

_I’m bored._

 

~oOo~


	13. Chapter XI: Cassandra Vablatsky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, for your comments and kudos. On my travels through the internet researching background for this fic, I found an account of life in a 1930s orphanage, and it just so happens that the person had a back story very similar to the one I invented here for Hermione. In case anyone's interested:
> 
> kindred-spirit*co*uk/blog/harsh-life-in-a-1930s-childrens-home

 

~oOo~

 

In the course of his regular work, Death’s day frequently lasted sixty hours – but none of those days had ever felt as long as spending ten hours alone around the house. For the whole of September and October he had gone out only a handful of times, heavily disguised, and the confinement was making him edgy. After several hundred years of travelling the globe multiple times per minute, staring at the same four walls was a truly unique kind of torture. A torture he just couldn’t bear anymore.

Death had promised his younger self that he would not contact anyone on the _other side_ , and not allow them to spot him; but why did that even matter, when it was his job to be in a thousand places at once? Why would any of the Elders suspect that there was a more permanent copy? If anything, it was here at home that they were more likely to notice, though ancient protections stopped them from coming onto his property unless called. Being Death did come with a few perks.

Having decided that leaving the house every day was unlikely to blow his cover, he realised that he had, in fact, nowhere to go. So many places to travel – mountains, tundra, forests, oceans, desert, grasslands… He had been to every square inch of the planet, but now he couldn’t think of a single reason to visit any of it.

The truth of it was that, devoid of a distraction, Death was _lonely_. Lonely and bored, and perfectly intelligent enough to realise the irony of the fact that he had brought it all upon himself. If he could return to 1998, he would do it in a heartbeat, and _he_ didn’t even have anything much to return to. For the first time, he began to understand the girl and her desperate pleas to go back. Back to her friends, he supposed, or her family; he didn’t know anything about her, not really, only that she went around with the Potter boy. None of it had mattered to him then.

In his mind’s eye, a vision of long dark hair and pale skin rose unbidden and his pulse quickened as it always did. Always, even after a millennium. Was this hopeless aching what he had condemned another to feel, so thoughtlessly?

With the final realisation of the magnitude of his actions came the answer to his geographical indecision: he would go to the girl. The only one who would ever share his knowledge of a future he had erased, or rather, condemned to be rewritten. He should have kept her out of it. Thought of another way to achieve his plan with Riddle, or not meddled at all. _Act in haste, repent at leisure._ Death was good at repenting. He had been doing it for centuries.

Once he had come to a decision, he threw himself into it rather wholeheartedly; the next day, a new routine developed. After his younger self left at 8am – to travel to 00.01am and the first unfortunate soul of the day – he too left the house. He would arrive at Hogwarts at 00.01am and stay until 11.59pm, then return home at 5.55pm. Just in time to greet his younger self home, as if he had been there the whole time. Flawless.

At first, his visits were pointless for she was asleep all day. There was ample time to imagine how the future might be, to go over in his mind what to say, to imagine how she might react. So, it was inevitable that once she did wake he found himself at a total loss. In the end, it was her that broke the silence – and it was not until hours later that he realised she had not, at the time of speaking, known of his presence. After that, a sense of unease at his intrusion kept him from revealing himself again. Was he welcome? Probably not. Death was rarely welcome anywhere, in fact.

Over the weeks, Hermione began to spend more and more time with the house-elf, and the sense of unease grew until one day he realised that it was more like jealousy. _Good God and Thor and Zeus, what has my life become? Talk to her, man, or go._ The ward was quiet now; Riddle had been sent back to the dormitory, and the Fawleys had finally gone home.

“Hermione. Are you awake?” He tried to keep his voice soft, but she visibly jumped at the noise despite being horizontal. _Not asleep, then._ There was a pause where he could hear her try to calm her breathing down.

“Well,” she said, with bit of venom that he supposed was mostly for show, “I am _now._ ”

“I had to wait for the nurse to leave. We’re alone now.” He didn’t know what point he was trying to make.

“You say that like I’m supposed to be comforted. What do you want, anyway?”

“I… I’m not sure. I wanted to say sorry.” He could practically hear her eyebrows rising.

“…Pardon?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I brought you here. I’m sorry that I didn’t think about your feelings, or that you would miss people. I’m sorry – I am so sorry that I can’t send you back. I promise that if I could I would. In an instant.”

Through the open window, the cry of a snowy owl pierced the night. The wind rustled the evergreens and, further off, he could just about detect hoof beats from the centaur herd. Inside the room, however, the silence was oppressive and absolute.

“What’s brought this on?” She asked, eventually, and it wasn’t any of the reactions he’d imagined.

“I’ve – had time to think, that’s all.”

“Can you show yourself? I don’t like talking to nothing.”

“What? Oh. It’s just, I promised the _other me_ that I wouldn’t attract attention. They are always watching.” In the near-darkness, he could just about make out her brow furrowing. He winced at his own faux-pas – nobody enjoyed discovering the true extent of the surveillance of the dead. Himself included.

“Why don’t you just change clothes or something?” He pondered how to respond.

“They will recognise my face.”

“Well, use a glamour charm then. Or polyjuice potion.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re quite bossy?” There was a chuckle, devoid of any real mirth, and Death was afraid that he had miss-stepped again. He tried to save it.

“I mean – I mean – it’s not an insult. I can’t abide weak women, they’re horrendously dull.”

“I don’t understand,” she said thoughtfully, “why are you suddenly so keen to be nice to me? It doesn’t make any sense. You can do whatever you want, after all, without consequence.”

He took a deep breath and forced himself to speak.

“I remembered something.” She said nothing, and the silence stretched on and on until he realised that he was being encouraged to elaborate.

“Someone I once knew. She used to tell me over and over how wrong it is to use power for the purpose of manipulation. I didn’t listen, of course. I was young and foolish and eventually I… paid the price. I swore I’d never make the same mistake again, and I didn’t – for about a thousand years, anyway.”

“So I’m not the first. Who were the others?”

“The others? _Oh_. No, you’re the first soul I’ve not… sent on.”

“You’ve lost me. Do you often, erm, _make friends_ with humans then?”

“Of course not – well, not since… not since I started this job, you might say. People don’t tend to be very pleased to see me.” Death waited patiently for the pieces to click into place.

“Oh _._ ” And then, more slowly, “ _oh._ ”

“So. How long? I mean, how long, have you been doing this… job?”

“Oh, a thousand years. Give or take.”

The silence stretched on for so long that Death began to think Hermione had fallen asleep.

“Why are you telling me this?” Her voice was small, fragile. He struggled to voice the answer even though the question had been anticipated.

“A thousand years is a long time. Without a friend. I’ve only just… _realised_ , I suppose.”

Through the dark, he saw a hand reach out tentatively. He touched it gently, expecting her to jerk away, but instead felt small fingers encircle his own.

 

~oOo~

 

Death’s hand was smooth and warm, and it was some time before the thought of it faded from her mind. Her own loneliness, perhaps, was making her desperate for any crumb of human contact and comfort.

The day after the frost fair passed quickly, then the next week, and Hermione was so pleased to have somebody to talk to that she put off asking why Death was hanging around with her all day when surely he must have something better to do. She also felt that she should probably find it creepy, knowing he was always watching, but somehow she didn’t. Sure, at some point they were going to have to talk about it, but right now she didn’t want to risk… upsetting him? The castle was maddeningly quiet, and the prospect of Christmas in the hospital wing was bad enough without being all alone.

Hermione found Death to be an interesting conversationalist; at the very least, living so long had provided him with a lot to talk about. If, perhaps, there were some topics that made each of them become moody and silent, the other was careful not to bring it up again. Death would talk about the world of the past – until he stumbled onto something that triggered painful memories – and Hermione would talk about her life in the future, until that came to the same sort of halting conclusion, but mostly they talked about magic.

It turned out that Death was a good teacher, with a knowledge base quite different to anything she had learned before. With his encouragement, her wandless and non-verbal spells kept improving.

“Humans are either born with the ability to channel magical energy, or they aren’t,” he said on Christmas Eve as she was trying to transfigure the desk chair into a Christmas tree. “That much has always been clear. But people are wrong in thinking that some humans are born with a higher magical capacity than others.”

With a huge act of concentration the chair began to sprout pine needles, but there was no getting away from it – it was still a chair. She glanced at Death, or rather at the spot he was invisibly occupying, and decided he was in lecturing mode and did not require a response.

“You know, it’s not only the desire for secrecy that has led purebloods to dislike those born to muggles,” he continued. “It’s because they are often particularly magically strong. Not in every case, of course, but being muggle-born presents a perfect opportunity to practice what you’re doing right now: feeling the magical pathways within. Using a wand dulls it; it’s an aid to laziness, not to power. You’ve become unaccustomed to channelling magic alone, but it will return.”

Several straggly branches appeared from the chair back, and Hermione huffed in exasperation and took a calming breath.

“So you’re saying that Tom’s no better than anyone else, just more practiced?” The chair lengthened, condensed and smoothly grew neat branches until it was entirely a Christmas tree: Death had obviously taken pity on her.

“Tom Riddle has many qualities,” he said eventually, “but magical affinity is learned, not given. Magic is in the earth and the air – not in ourselves.”

She knew well enough when to drop a subject, so she picked up her water glass and began to change it into a star for the tree. By the time the clock chimed midnight, the room looked almost festive.

“Merry Christmas,” she said, and there was no response but for the appearance of a small box on the nightstand and the slight magical flare of Death’s silent apparition.

She reached for the box, and was entirely unsurprised to find a chocolate frog card on top.

_Cassandra Vablatsky (1894 -1949?) is a popular seer who has repeatedly made false prophecies predicting her own death. Her book, A Beginner’s Guide to Fortune Telling, contains the memorable advice “Don’t bother”._

On the reverse, Death’s familiar script simply read, _I’m sorry_ , then, below, a flowing signature. _Zorion._

Her surprise grew as she opened the box and found it to contain a necklace. The chain was light, made of silver, and bore a tiny pendant resembling a cat. There was the flare of apparition again; Death returning for the new day. She had got used to his bizarre schedule.

“Erm… thank you,” she said, and regretted immediately the way it came out more like a question than a statement.

“You said you missed your cat,” said Death, a bit hesitantly. “But it – it has a purpose. If you touch it and say my name I will hear. I will come. I – I thought you could keep it with you.”

Hermione didn’t really know what to say, because none of her previous experiences had prepared her for the idea of Death having a name. Or for Death giving her a Christmas present at all, let alone such a thoughtful one. So she simply slipped the necklace on and said “thank you” again.

 

~oOo~

 

Not a word had been said when he limped off the ice, away from the crowd gathered around Cassandra. Not a word when he returned to the dormitory after getting his broken wrist mended. Not a word the next morning when they all left to catch the train. One stupid moment – and he didn’t even understand how it had happened, because he’d been doing just fine before that – had wrecked everything, somehow, and now they didn’t want to associate with him anymore.

How lucky that they had now gone, giving him valuable time to think about what to do. Saving him the trouble of avoiding them.

Several weeks ago, when they had found out that he was remaining at school for the holiday, they had looked at him with varying degrees of pity. Perhaps he ought to feel sad that he had no family to spend Christmas with – but since he could not even imagine such a thing, he could hardly miss it. Besides, he was going to have Hogwarts virtually to himself for two weeks, and he wouldn’t swap that golden opportunity for anything.

For the past month he had been conducting most of his exploring outdoors, where the weather often prevented him from being disturbed by too many others. Now, though, he turned his full attention inside. For a week he wandered about, memorising corridors and trick steps and examining tapestries and statues, talking charmingly with ghosts and portraits and the occasional passing teacher. It seemed as though everybody wanted to console the poor lonely orphan boy at Christmastime, and he basked in their attentions.

Christmas itself was strange – Mrs Cole had not sent him anything, probably because she had no idea how to, so his morning was devoid of the only traditions he knew. He was not woken by the bell, followed by the raucous shouts of the younger children – he did not have to queue up for the special breakfast of bacon instead of the usual porridge, or go to church, or sing carols. For all that he hated the grey place he had grown up in, filled with dull grey _muggle_ people, there was a moment just after he opened his eyes where he felt… something. A vague sense of disappointment, perhaps, at the quietness of the empty dormitory which was making him feel so very far from home.

The moment was gone in an instant, and he looked up at the stars on the ceiling and the embroidery on the bed hangings and told himself he had a new home now. Somewhere his ancestors – ancient, pureblood, respectable _Gaunts_ – had always belonged; superior in every conceivable way to the city grime and high walls and tasteless food of _Riddle’s_ cold world. _Tom Riddle_. What a constant reminder of every insult ever paid to him. As if it were not bad enough to share a first name with half of London, he must share the whole with an unknown weak _muggle_ father. Tom refused to be weak, refused to stand in the shadow of another. That morning, he vowed that he would rise higher; fashion something new for himself until the last vestiges of _Tom Riddle_ were gone and forgotten.

He spent the second week of the holidays mostly in the empty library, reading and thinking. Gaunts and Malfoys, curses and hexes, potions and history. The days passed quickly; wizards and witches, charms and transfiguration, Legilimency and Parseltongue – hang on – Parseltongue, and Slytherin and muggleborns and basilisks and Parseltongue and… _oh_.

Oh.

In his head, he could still hear Abraxas’ smug voice bragging about being related to the founder of their house. They had not been friends then; he had not been involved in the argument, which mostly involved Einar saying he was lying because he was not a Parselmouth. At the time he had not known what that meant, and the ability to speak to snakes had not come up since.

He imagined the look on Abraxas’ face if he found out that it was _Tom_ , not he, who was related to Salazar Slytherin – and it was lucky that the library was empty, because his laughing would have probably had him admitted to an asylum.

What a discovery. What an end to what a year – and the next looked even brighter.

_Happy birthday, Tom._

 

~oOo~


	14. Chapter XII: Paracelsus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos, and sorry this one's so late. There have been a few issues but I hope we're back on track now.

~oOo~

 

As it transpired, Hermione was spared from trying to find a way to confront Death – _Zorion_ – about his total disregard for her privacy. They had spent Christmas together in the hospital wing, both trying to pretend that the house elves’ brilliant food was enough to lift the inherent melancholy of the occasion, but on Boxing Day he was gone. The room felt empty; smaller, somehow, and more cage-like. It was less than an hour after returning from her walk with Tiggy that she felt the urge to use the cat pendant, but somehow it didn’t seem right.

The days passed in silence except for the elf’s visits. Even Nurse Jeffries had gone home for the holidays, the rush of the office floo announcing her brief visit each morning at nine. Hermione practiced her wandless magic – since it was the only part of her plan she could currently action – until she was too exhausted to do anything but lie down and try to ignore the cacophony of thoughts inside her head.

In September, the pain of everything had been unbearably raw. No choice but to shut down; shut it out, use the routine of school to suppress the feelings that were so terrifyingly out of control. After Halloween, the illness had taken the place of school in distracting her mind – then Tiggy, then Death. It was only now, after four months of diversion and distance, that the emotion was beginning to surface again.

Hermione was a logical person in general. She had noticed that four months spent in the past was an almost-significant portion of her overall time in the Wizarding world. She could determine that the hurt was less fresh than it had been. She had somehow accepted Death’s apology, or at least the sincerity of the sentiment, and understood that she had the chance to shape a better future.

None of that changed the fact that she now had to try extremely hard, closing her eyes, to remember the way Harry’s hair stuck out or the way Ron’s eyes looked when he smiled. The feel of Crookshanks’ fur or her mother’s arms or the sound of her father’s voice.

The thought that these precious memories were never to freshen, but instead could only fade, reduced her to tears every time it crossed her mind. She could imagine a future where Voldemort did not gain power; where James and Lily lived and Sirius was not imprisoned. But she could not imagine a future where she could be happy without Ron and Harry, and so she told herself that the task was all that mattered; that her industrious misery was, perhaps, noble, and that would have to be enough.

“Expecto Patronum.”

It was as useless as ever – a wispy silver mist instead of the darting otter. Not once had she managed it in this era, even after a thousand attempts. Little chance of meeting a dementor, indeed, but the real motivation was just to see the shimmering creature as proof of her ability to feel the emotion. The memory of Ron and Harry laughing was now stained with a sadness she couldn’t shake off, no longer strong enough to power the spell.

New Year came and went, and soon the mass of voices could be heard through the open window again. The castle, so dead for a fortnight, reanimated and perhaps even became a little warmer. Her cough had by now much improved, and eventually she dared to ask the obvious question.

“How much longer will I have to be here?”

Nurse Jeffries looked up from where she had been recording Hermione’s weight on a chart. Her demeanour had become a little less abrupt recently – perhaps an effect of the holiday, or maybe she had eventually warmed to her long term patient. There was a bit of a pause, which was recognisable as the kind where an adult is deciding how much of the truth a child really needs to know.

“Look,” she said, eventually, and the tone was far gentler than it had been a month ago. “You’re doing very well, and I know you’ve been bored. Anyone would be.” She tapped the pencil absently on the clipboard. “I re-tested you a week ago. Now – you must understand – the infection can come back, so I was waiting a while to be safe… but you’re clear.”

The statement was accompanied by a frown where Hermione thought a smile ought to have been.

“Erm, that’s… good, isn’t it? Can I go then?” Although she was less than keen to see her classmates again, two months of staring at the same walls was getting old. Never mind the fact that she couldn’t visit the library. The nurse was still frowning.

“I’m afraid not. I’ve been to see the Headmaster – told him you’re better – but he’s just so worried. We’ve got to try and understand… he himself was at school during an outbreak of dragon pox. Between that and the governors, there’s so much paranoia…”

“So how long will it take? Am I going to be sent away?”

“No, not sent away. But… I don’t know. I suppose until the Headmaster thinks the governors will accept it. If you ask me, it’s going to be September.”

Despite her best efforts, the surprise must have shown on her face.

“Oh, dear, I know,” sympathised Nurse Jeffries, who was evidently trying her very best to be comforting. It didn’t particularly suit her. “There was one other thing I discussed with the Headmaster, though.” The sentence ended on a rather hopeful high, so Hermione forced herself to say, “Yes?” as politely as she could manage.

“Your friend Tom. He’s still been stopping by every few days, so I asked if he could start visiting.”

After a beat of silence as the words sank in, Hermione was caught between tears and hysterical laughter. She almost felt bad for the nurse, whose expression was so earnest. Desperately she scrabbled around for some sort of excuse.

“But… I might make him sick…” was all she could manage.

“Oh, there was never a very big chance of that, really. Certainly not now. But I’ll leave it up to him.” The sound of voices at the other end of the ward prompted the nurse to smile reassuringly and bustle out of the room, preventing her from offering another rebuttal.

Why had Tom been visiting for so many weeks? Try as she might, she could not come up with a positive motive. Maybe it was for show – presumably for the teachers’ benefit, since their friendship wouldn’t go down well with his housemates. Or maybe he was hoping for some sort of gossip on her condition. Probably there was no need to think on it; he would simply claim to be worried about being infected and not stop by again. Probably.

 

~oOo~

 

_Philippus von Hohenheim (1493-1541) was an alchemist and physician. Persecuted by muggles for his methods, which were perceived as sacrilegious, he was forced into hiding. His writings were published under the pseudonym ‘Paracelsus’, by which he is better known today._

 

“ ‘ _A rose, by any other name_ …’ ”

“Pardon?” Older Death was jolted out of his contemplation, not having realised that his younger self had entered the room. He motioned with his left hand to the frog card that was still clutched in his right.

“Paracelsus – got me thinking. If only a name could really change anything.” Younger Death poured himself a drink and sat down before speaking.

“Has something happened?”

Older Death choked back a sarcastic retort about the quantity of _things_ that frequently _happen_. Instead, he finally settled on, “I told her – a name.”

He waited for the full implications of the statement to sink in, but the seconds kept passing and still no anger was visible on his counterpart’s face.

“Oh,” he said, eventually, “ _that’s_ where you were going all those days. I did wonder. Did you really think the house elves wouldn’t tell me? I hope you were careful.”

Since it wasn’t the kind of answer he had expected, Older Death didn’t know how to respond.

“I had to speak to her. I was never seen. I have not summoned anyone. I won’t go again, unless she calls.”

Younger Death raised his eyebrows, and Older Death felt that he was being thoroughly _catalogued_. It was odd how his own expressions could make him feel so uncomfortable.

“Ah, I see… You’re feeling _sorry_ for her. You’ve been sharing sob stories, I suppose, wanting _someone to listen_. That’s a bit pathetic, even for you, isn’t it?”

“Have you entirely forgotten that you’re _talking about yourself?_ ” Bit out Older Death, angrily. “Yes, I made a mistake coming here, I was desperate. Desperate the same way you are. At least I’ve _tried_ to do something about it. And there’s nothing wrong with making a friend.”

“Oh, yes, we’ve always been _remarkable_ at friendship, haven’t we?” Older Death refused to dignify the jibe with a response, and the passing empty seconds dissipated the atmosphere in the room somewhat.

“So… what name did you tell her?” Older Death recognised the slight change of subject was a bit of an olive branch, so he was reluctant to answer and expose himself to further ridicule. When he could think of no plausible lie, he said, rather quietly,

“Zorion.”

There was a sharp bark of laughter which became a choked sort of hoot and eventually a rolling chuckle, bouncing off the walls until Older Death thought the insides of his ears had been bleached raw by it. He gritted his teeth, determined to bear it, and took a long swig of firewhisky.

“ _Zorion_ , oh, Odin’s beard, man, that is _priceless_. Mister _happiness_. Us! _Death!_ Oh!” Another wave of laughter, almost as long as the first. Older Death sighed.

“I wonder that you can manage to make such fun. As if you wouldn’t take a fresh start if you could.”

“True, true. But _honestly._ You can’t say it isn’t _funny._ Naming yourself out of one of mother’s fairytales? The boy who brings _happiness_? Isn’t that a bit too tragic and grandiose even for us?”

“Oh, sod off. It’s done now. She’ll probably never think twice about it anyway. Probably.”

 

~oOo~

 

They still weren’t speaking to him. He thought he could ride it out – that it would pass – but as the week barrelled on with no sign of change, he began to grow annoyed. Several times he heard them talking about some sort of Christmas party at Malfoy Manor, and usually the conversation ended abruptly when he was caught listening. On Saturday, however, Abraxas looked up and began to speak even more loudly.

“Well, after the Minister finished telling us about Cassandra’s injuries, Father reminded us not to associate with anyone… beneath us.” The last two words were delivered straight at him.

He could hear the blood rushing in his ears as his heartbeat raced with rage. How _dare_ they! He was the descendant of Slytherin himself; beneath _nobody_! Not by birth and _certainly_ not by power. The magic was snapping and zinging down his fingers – barely controlled – it would be the easiest thing in the world to… to…

If four months at Hogwarts had shown him anything, it was the difference in outcomes depending on who got hurt. Twice he had deliberately attacked Granger and got away with it completely. Once he had hurt Fawley – not even on purpose, not even with magic – and everyone had turned on him, despite his own injury being far worse. He was not stupid. He might have got away with cursing Malfoy once, but this was different to that time on the train. They would tell on him and it was five against one. Before he could do something reckless, he swept out of the room.

The hallways were busy, it being a rainy afternoon. He was at the library before he realised where he was going; the anger must have been taking his feet on the most common route. It was crowded and the mass of overlapping whispers seemed to bore into his agitated mind, making it impossible to calm down and contemplate reading. He hesitated on the threshold, turned, and had to avoid a group of older students bustling in. When his gaze fell on the infirmary corridor, he moved forward as much to slink out of the way as anything else. Before he knew what he was doing, he was slipping through the door to the ward.

Inside, the rows of beds were empty and the atmosphere peaceful enough for his mind to begin to quiet. No sound came from behind the partition wall.

“Ah! Tom.”

The nurse’s voice made him jump about a foot in the air, and he scowled, disgusted with his lack of awareness. Quickly he rearranged his face into a more polite expression and turned around.

“Good afternoon, Nurse Jeffries, I was–”

“Yes, yes, you’ve come to see Miss Granger. As it happens, I was just about to send someone to tell you the good news! Professor Dippet has granted you permission to visit her.” Briefly, his displeasure at being interrupted prevented her words from sinking in. Then he did something of a double take.

“P-pardon?”

“She’s better! Isn’t that good news? I’m sure she’ll be over the moon to have a visitor.” The nurse was already ushering him down the ward, so she completely missed his gaping expression as he scrabbled about for some sort of excuse. Perhaps on any other day he might have managed, but his brain was still echoing with the words _beneath us_ and the idea that two months of social climbing had been wasted.

Nurse Jeffries rapped once on the door before swinging it open to reveal Granger sat at a desk in front of the large end window. A book was open in front of her but her sheet of parchment was blank and the quill in her hand was dry. He wondered what she had been doing before their footsteps approached.

“Hermione, dear, it’s Tom come to visit!” It was only a slight movement, but he noticed with some satisfaction the tension enter her shoulders. There was a subtle pause before she turned around, but there was still a trace of shock in her expression. She hastily replaced it with a smile.

“Tom!” He hadn’t had much time to prepare for this moment, never having imagined it on any of his previous visits.

“Hermione, it’s good to see you. Are you feeling better?”

“Yes – much better, thank you.” The nurse gave him an awkward pat as she retreated from the room.

“I’ll leave you two to it. Hermione – you’re welcome to ask Tiggy to bring dinner for Tom, too, when the time comes.”

Luckily the door closed before either of them could respond. It was two-thirty. _How long am I going to have to stay here?!_ Granger’s face was a picture of shocked horror, and suddenly the idea of staying for dinner seemed more appealing. He sat down on the bed – partly to annoy her and partly since there was nowhere else.

“ _Riddle_ ,” she hissed, “what do you want?” This was a surprisingly difficult question to answer since he hadn’t meant to come at all. He recovered smoothly.

“Just to see how you were, of course.”

“Oh, drop the act, it’s pathetic. I’d have been dead months ago if you’d had your way.” He chose to ignore her, smoothing imaginary creases out of his robe and straightening his tie though it was already perfectly central.

“Fine, be like that. Though I wonder how your friends are going to react when I tell them you’ve been visiting a – a – _mudblood_.” Her face contorted around the word as she spat it out. He recoiled ever so slightly before he could catch himself.

“I don’t have any friends,” he threw back coldly. Her surprise alerted him to the fact that he had given away too much. Coming here in this mixed up state had been a terrible mistake, but it was done now, and that gnawing unease did nothing to help his control.

“No friends? Interesting. Why would that – _oh_ – this wouldn’t have anything to do with… _poor Cassandra_ , would it?” She was baiting him, and he had no idea how to turn the tables. Again he chose the strategy of silence, picking up a quill from the bedside table and twirling it between his fingers. Her penetrating gaze was like a weight against his skin, but he refused to acknowledge it, and eventually the pages of her book began to turn. He concentrated on the quill, making it hover and then spin above his open palm.

“I bet they were all really impressed with that stuff,” she said nonchalantly, gesturing to him without bothering to look up. “Like I said, they don’t feel magic like we do.” He thought of how many evenings he’d spent trying to teach Abraxas the torture spell and was inclined to agree, though he’d rather torture _himself_ than tell her. Instead, he said,

“Show me,” rather smugly. That was bound to shut her up – he’d seen her in classes, she was barely average. The cherry tree, all those months ago, must have been some kind of trick. She turned around from the desk and fixed him with a smirk, making his confidence falter slightly. The feather drifted lazily from his hand to hers, and he tried to remember if he had seen her cast without a wand before.

“Well, I suppose that’s better than the others, but I –”

He forgot what he was going to say, mouth stuck open, as the feather erupted in a roar of blue flames above her palm. They were gone as abruptly as they had arrived, leaving nothing but a pile of ash drifting down. Withdrawing her hand, she made a twisting motion and the particles flew together, fusing and morphing until it was not a cloud of dust but a single flower floating in front of her. In another instant the quill was back exactly as before, returning to his hand. He noticed his mouth was still open and rapidly closed it.

“You could do with friends who value intelligence above money, you know.” She spoke in a tone that was gratingly bossy, jarring him out of his surprise.

“Like _you_ , you mean?” She laughed and turned around.

“You wish, Riddle.”

 

~oOo~

 


	15. Chapter XIII: Cornelius Agrippa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your comments and kudos, as always, I appreciate it.

~oOo~

 

In the weeks that followed his visit to the hospital wing, Tom became increasingly withdrawn. Where he had previously been quiet, he was now silent except for during lessons. Where he had previously been cautious he was now positively secretive, avoiding everyone. Malfoy and the others had somehow found out about Granger, making spending any time in the same room with them unbearable; he started to explain that he had only kept dropping in so the teachers wouldn’t suspect any of them of cursing her, but they didn’t want to listen. One grey morning in February, though, that became the least of his problems.

He was only in the bathroom for about five minutes. It was six-thirty, which was when he always used the bathroom – long before anyone else was awake. How was it that the one time someone _was_ awake had been the one time he had not hidden all his things?

Tom had never before wished a hole would appear in the ground and swallow him up, but he wished it instantly and fervently when he saw Malfoy and Fudge craning to read a roll of parchment over Lestrange’s shoulder. They looked up at him, laughing and laughing and mocking and he couldn’t _stand_ it, just _couldn’t stand it;_ their stupid smug faces and their stupid expensive pyjamas and their _total overall stupidity_! He felt magic flare and this time it was too far gone to stop it – no calculated thoughts were surfacing past the mass of molten rage and humiliation and hurt.

Blood.

There was blood seeping and pooling on the flagstones. There was muffled screaming and frantic scrabbling movements. There was the deafening sound of his heartbeat in his ears: _re-venge. re-venge. re-venge._ Power. It tasted like sweet power on the tongue.

And then, the moment was gone. He was just Tom, stood barefoot on the cold floor while three figures bent double and gasped and whimpered, turning pale, and he was _scared_. More scared than he had ever been, even when Mrs Cole had nearly had him sent to the asylum. His heartbeat accelerated even further, and now instead of _revenge_ it was saying _expelled, Expelled, EXPELLED._

The blood was still flowing and the screams of Dolohov and Burke – recently awakened – joined the clamour. Surely, in seconds, people from the other dormitories would come bursting in. He panicked, grabbed the parchment which had been the unsuspecting cause of everything, and ran.

There was no point trying to hide or to deny it, and he could think of only one other option.

“Professor Slughorn! _PROFESSOR SLUGHORN!_ ” He hammered on the door so hard that he was left clutching his hand in agony. It seemed to take years for his Head of House to open it, looking startled and confused and asleep all at once. He caught the man by the sleeve without waiting to explain; dragged him at a run back through the dungeon corridor and the common room and the dormitory corridor. He could hear himself saying _it was an accident, it was an accident,_ over and over again in ascending pitch and agitation, not even able to decide if he were telling the truth.

He ran ahead to the hospital wing on Slughorn’s orders to warn the nurse, then waited an age while spells were cast and potions administered and bandages applied – no one seemed to dismiss him. Finally, the Professor announced that they were going to see the Headmaster, and he wished that he could merely continue to wait around instead. They walked in silence, coming presently to a statue he had passed many times before.

“Sekhmet.”

The novelty of the occasion was wasted on Tom in that moment. They ascended the statue, arriving in a circular office with a large desk: Headmaster Dippet was already sat behind it, clad in some sort of dressing robe. His air was grave.

“Sit down, Mr Riddle,” he said wearily. Tom sat.

“Tell us what happened.” Even though he’d had an hour in the hospital wing to think about it, it was hard to organise the words. So much harder than lying about the cave, or the stolen toys, or the rabbit. He carefully arranged his face into an anxious expression.

“Headmaster, please, I swear it was an accident. I don’t understand how it happened. They were –“ and here he paused, giving the impression of reticence to tell tales –“They were laughing at me. About growing up in the orphanage. About being friends with Hermione. They were calling her names, and I suppose – I suppose I got angry. I don’t know what happened, I saw the… b-blood. And I ran to fetch Professor Slughorn.”

There was a terrible silence, and Tom did not dare raise his eyes from his lap to assess their faces. Eventually it was Slughorn who spoke.

“Headmaster, if I may – I think Tom’s quick thinking has very probably saved the boys’ lives.”

Tom narrowly caught the sigh of relief before it passed his lips, though looking up he saw that Dippet’s expression had not changed.

“Yes, Horace, you’re quite correct… However, let us remember that Mr Riddle merely averted a _tragedy_. He has still undeniably caused a _disaster_. Any student injured in this way is equally distressing, of course, but I trust I don’t need to remind you that it’s the children of _two Governors_ and _three Wizengamot members_ we’re talking about. I will have to act.”

“Professor Dippet!–” he burst out, almost accidentally. “Please, please. Don’t expel me. They beat me, at the orphanage. For doing magic. Please.” Again it was Slughorn who broke the silence.

“Tom, my boy… you have to understand. These parents aren’t going to want you staying in the same room as their children anymore. I know you didn’t mean to do it, but at the very least you must admit that your magic is dangerously out of control.” He fumbled for his best contrite expression, hoping against hope that it would be enough.

“Sir, I’ve been trying so hard. In my lessons. I’m learning to control it, I’m getting better. It’s just those things they said – but, but… if I didn’t have to be with them…”

Two pairs of eyes were locked on him and it felt as if he were awaiting an executioner.

“Headmaster, I feel I should point out that Tom is by far the most capable student in my class. I’ve heard the other teachers saying the same. It would be a shame – wouldn’t it? – to lose such… talent.” Professor Slughorn had a faraway expression, and Tom wondered what he was imagining.

“Of course, of course. After all, which of us has never made a mistake? I was not thinking of expelling Mr Riddle… _on this occasion._ Although the governors will take a particularly dim view of this behaviour from a student whose fees are paid from the school fund…”

Tom felt the angry embarrassment climb up his neck. Well, _he_ could hardly help it if he had no money! Even the teachers treated him as if he were second class! One day he would show them.

“Perhaps,” said Slughorn, breaking his internal monologue, “Tom could be given some separate quarters.” Dippet appeared to consider this for a moment.

“Yes,” he said, finally. “But this cannot look like a reward instead of a punishment. For that reason, I must insist that Mr Riddle serves detention on Saturday and Sunday mornings for the rest of the year. Horace, you will ensure that he returns to his room straight after dinner every day.” Having instructed the Professor, the Headmaster turned his attention to Tom. “Young man.” His expression was still grave. “I must impress on you the seriousness of what has occurred this morning. I hope that during the next few months you will have time to reflect on it… No matter what happens, violence is not the answer. I’m afraid that if you can’t learn to control your magic, I shall have no choice but to send you home.”

“Yes, sir.”

The journey from the office to the dormitory, the packing of his meagre belongings, breakfast and the days’ lessons were all a blur, as if he were viewing everything underwater. After dinner, Professor Slughorn led him to his new room and locked him in with an apologetic look. He sat down on the bed – still a four poster, but with plain hangings – and removed the now-crumpled roll of parchment from his pocket. He had been so pleased with himself, but now it hurt to look at it so he squeezed his eyes shut viciously. The letters were still there, though, burned bright into the dark canvas of the mind.

THOMAS MARVOLO RIDDLE

_IMMORTAL LORD…  (AVHDEOS)_

THOMAS MARVOLO RIDDLE

_I AM LORD… (ELDOVRSAMOHT)_

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

_IMMORTAL LORD… (VEDO)_

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

_I AM LORD… VOLDEMORT_

 

Perhaps it was as much from anger as from sadness, but for the first time he could remember a teardrop formed behind his closed eyelid.

 

~oOo~

 

The next time she saw Tom Riddle, April was just about to give way to May and the castle was basking in spring sunshine. He was in her room cleaning the windows when Tiggy apparated them back from the morning walk, giving them quite a shock. The elf immediately took her leave.

“What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer immediately, appearing to stare intently at a patch of rust on the window frame.

“Detention.”

She took off her outer robe and hung it on the back of the chair, wondering the best way to proceed with the conversation.

“What happened? You know, when they were all in here that morning… The nurse said you were angry at them for insulting me, but that can’t be it.” Tom looked in her direction, and there was none of the usual array of fake expressions on his face.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She had expected any one of a hundred charming lies, so the honesty of this response was utterly surprising to her.

“O-okay. Anyway, how did you manage not to get expelled?” She kept her tone cheerful and was rewarded by what might _almost_ have been the beginning of a smile.

“Slughorn mostly. He believed it was an accident; didn’t want to lose my _talent_.” The laugh was out of her mouth before she realised it was forming, and it felt strange.

“God forbid… but, _was_ it an accident?” He stared for a while, and his answer again surprised her with its honesty.

“I’m not sure.” Then, a while later, “I was angry.”

“Yes… you’re angry quite a lot.” _Well, that’s got to be in the running for the understatement of the century._ She sat down on the bed, and he went back to making noncommittal dusting motions.

“Is it awkward now? In lessons?” He shrugged slightly.

“Nobody talks to me.” She supposed that was to be expected: probably half out of dislike and half out of genuine fear. It started to dawn on her how different Tom’s life had become since the incident at the Frost Fair, and for the first time she felt a glimmer of optimism that the future she had known might never be.

“Well, that makes two of us. It’s so boring up here.” Too late she realised the obvious next question and the dangerous territory it charted.

“Why don’t you go home then?” _Stupid, stupid Granger._ Still, it was bound to come up at some point. At least she’d had time to think about it – even time to talk with Zorion about it.

“I don’t have a home.” She tried to keep her voice as neutral as possible, and wondered how much he was going to press. He wasn’t really the talkative kind, usually.

“Nurse said you have an uncle, but your parents are dead, is that true?” His tone was demanding, but maybe that was just his normal voice. She narrowed her eyes slightly.

“Why the sudden interest?” It was gone in the smallest fraction of a second, but she thought perhaps she saw a flash of hurt on his face. It was hard to believe, but since gaining his confidence seemed like a good idea, she added, “Sorry. I mean, yes, that’s… true. But you’ve never told me anything about you.”

“I’ve never told anyone anything about me.” Suddenly, a lightbulb went on in her mind. It was such a long shot, but the conversation had been so odd already that now anything seemed possible.

“Me either. People here have been so nasty, I didn’t want to give them any ammunition. When Professor Tofty came to tell me I was a witch, he never said that everyone would hate me for being muggle-born… and poor.” The last two words seemed to do the trick – Tom’s expression hardened.

“Dumbledore came to me. Had to give me money for the books and robes. Everyone noticed right away they were second hand.”

“I heard somebody say once… that you were born in the orphanage? How was that?”

Hermione knew she had asked a sore question. Any other day he would have already stormed out, or worse. Instead, she saw him put on his blankest expression.

“My mother died. Giving birth to me. Though clearly she had already decided to give me up anyway.” It wasn’t hard to see why he would find that upsetting, she thought. Rather than attempt something consoling, she decided to volunteer the story she had discussed with Zorion several months ago.

“My mother died in childbirth too, except it was my sister. She died a few days later – I was only small, so I don’t remember. Father never really spoke about it. What is it like there? At the orphanage?” Tom appeared to think for a while.

“Boring,” he said. “Grey. But I can go out anywhere I want. Where do you come from?”

“Islington.” They had agreed that she should tell – almost – the truth about this. Her parents’ home was a bit further north, but wasn’t due to be built for another twenty years. She was banking on the city still having enough familiar landmarks to support her cover story if it came to it.

Tom clearly knew London well, because he seemed to analyse her on the basis of this new information – perhaps imagining what type of house she had lived in.

“That’s almost as bad as Vauxhall,” he said. She grinned internally, having just scored a big win: finding the orphanage, should she ever need to, would now be easy.

“Oh, it’s terrible,” she agreed. “Up here it’s much nicer. There’s so much sky.” It was her attempt at being cunning: the one thing all city children would think if introduced to the countryside for the first time at the age of eleven. Tom’s gaze returned to the window, following a bird of prey soaring in the distance. Whether he contemplated her words or had simply lost interest in the conversation was hard to say.

It was strange to think that the Voldemort of her own time might once have appreciated something as pure as a bird in flight; had once been able to compare the relative merits of Islington and Vauxhall; had once liked to wander the city filled with all its inexorably _muggle_ things. She wondered what else she did not yet know about Tom Riddle; Tom Riddle, not the man he would become. Or, if she had anything to do with it, the man he would _not_ become.

The clock chimed twelve, evidently signalling the end of detention since he got up and left without a word. She retrieved her Herbology textbook and turned to the section on poisonous plants but her gaze was drawn instead to the bird – an osprey – still circling above the lake. For the only time since she had first ridden a broomstick, she wished she were flying too; feeling the wind and the sunshine and being so naturally a part of everything. It had been impossible to see the beauty in anything, taken, as she had been, so far from all sources of comfort. But spring had finally arrived in the Highlands, bringing back some of the colour to her world just as it gave new life to the plants and creatures after the harsh winter.

Tom Riddle had already been separated from the most loyal core of his future followers, and perhaps she had even made him think that he had more in common with her than with any of them. Years of struggle lay ahead; a monumental task to achieve, a war in both worlds, eternal prejudice and oppression. But for today, as the scent of mown grass and the chirping of a blackbird drifted in through the window, there was for the first time that ephemeral companion: Hope.

 

~oOo~

 

_Cornelius Agrippa (1486-1535) was a German wizard scorned by muggles for his belief in magic. He attempted to publish his book ‘De Occulta Philosophia’ under a pseudonym but was discovered and imprisoned, though he later escaped._

Death sighed. Apparently, giving oneself a new name didn’t always work out.

~oOo~


	16. Chapter XIV: Pythagoras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and comments. Sometimes it really helps to have some encouragement.

~oOo~

 

Albus Dumbledore couldn’t remember the last time he had slept soundly. He would delay retiring to bed until after midnight then lie awake as the clock chimed one – even two. Occasionally he would resort to a potion, but the strange knocked-out sort of rest was never particularly restful either. That, and he couldn’t stand anything that interfered with the working of his mind.

It was the night before the end of term; in the morning the students would be herded onto the Hogwarts Express and the professors would begin their precious two months of peace. The staffroom had been filled with no other discussion for the past fortnight. Professor Tofty was taking his new wife to Ireland to look for leprechauns; Professor Merrythought was going to stay with her sister in Cornwall; Professor Babel was embarking on a stargazing expedition to Argentina. Professor Slughorn had plans to visit last year’s Head Girl in Anglesey where she was training with the Holyhead Harpies – he had a feeling the potions teacher had more on his mind than watching Quidditch, but he tried not to think about that.

Albus had worked at Hogwarts for nearly thirty years. Nearly thirty beautiful Highland summers had arrived and taken the others away to their chosen leisure activity; thirty groups of seventh-years released into the wide world. The first he had taught were middle-aged themselves now with steady jobs in the Ministry and their own children at school. The years, while in those midnight hours seeming to crawl along, had been flying by while he wasn’t looking. Was he _old_ , now? It seemed like just yesterday that he had left these ancient walls, newly-qualified, drunk on youth and magic and confidence. Now he had nowhere to go, and no one to visit.

He did not like to think about the past. Partly it was because, logically, it wouldn’t change anything – but mostly, it was because it _hurt_. Certainly it wasn’t healthy, keeping this inferno of emotion locked inside forever, but what was the alternative? He had long ago given up the dream of having anyone to share it with and as his star rose and rose in society, the idea of having his chequered past splashed over the _Daily Prophet_ seemed less and less appealing. It was better to cultivate the image of the slightly mad genius than to let anyone get closer.

On this particular night, the clock chimed three and still sleep seemed a long way off. He flipped back the covers, donned a robe and slippers and trudged to the window. The night was moonless, but a clear sky hosted thousands of stars. Perhaps there was a sort of tenseness in the air, or perhaps that was merely the reflection of his troubled thoughts.

War was coming. The students didn’t know it – the Professors didn’t talk about it – the Ministry refused to acknowledge it. But it was coming all the same. It had been coming for years, closer and closer in subtle motions that made it hard to decide when to act on it. He wished he were somewhere else, wished there could be someone else to deal with it. Somehow he knew already that there wouldn’t be. He would be pushed, _once more unto the breach_ , not because he deserved it (though Merlin knew he did) but because the rest of the country was too scared or too incompetent. They would make him a hero, or a martyr – the headlines wouldn’t care which way it went, alive or dead he would sell a thousand copies.

The threat of war had crowded other thoughts out of his mind. He could not focus on his research or even properly on his teaching, and the alarm bells that went off every time he saw the Riddle boy went largely ignored. Pretending he was fine was becoming an increasingly complicated charade that he no longer knew how to stop acting out and every time he closed his eyes the image of wild blond hair and laughing eyes sprang up to mock him.

In the dead of night, he allowed the masks of daytime to slip away. No longer _Professor Dumbledore_ , Hogwarts’ most celebrated teacher and presumed next Headmaster; no longer _A.P.W.B. Dumbledore,_ alchemist with a talent for innovation; no longer Wizengamot member forty-two, consistently resisting nomination for Chief Warlock. Just Albus, a boy who became a man in the heat of one summer argument but never really _grew up_. Albus, who had used teaching and judicial service and magical research as if to atone for the sin of his own nature; used intellect as a sword and eccentricity as a shield.

It was not as though he had any particular desire to visit Argentina or bed a nineteen-year old Chaser… but still, he wished he were any one of his colleagues, going off for summer without a care in the world.

Albus _–_ the curious child who did not at all feel fifty-seven years old – was lonely and scared.

 

~oOo~

 

Tom watched as the train left Hogsmeade behind, wondering if he were the only one not looking forward to the holidays. Across from him, Granger was engrossed in her potions textbook, though he couldn’t imagine why. She’d clearly read it almost as many times as he had, and the exams had been a week ago. Perhaps she was sore because he’d beaten her, but that result had hardly been restricted to potions. That reminded him of something.

“You only got an E in transfiguration and an A in charms.” She straightened her back defensively and looked up, expression surprisingly smug.

“So?”

“You could have got two O’s… without a wand.”

“Oh… yes, I suppose I could have.” She was maddening! He didn’t like not being answered… even if he hadn’t technically asked a question.

“So. Why?” He ground out.

“I prefer to be underestimated.” He had never heard anything that made less sense. While he was trying to comprehend, she added, “Also, it will make it all the more noteworthy when I beat you at the OWLs.”

“ _No-one_ will beat me. Ever.” Her smile was conspiratorial.

“Well, we’ll see about that. You’d better keep practising over the summer.”

“You know we can’t do magic outside Hogwarts!” There was a small, odd pause.

“Oh. Yes. Well. I meant, reading and stuff. Do you have any plans for the summer?” He blinked, surprised by the sudden change of topic not to mention the stupidity of asking _him_ that question.

“…Well, after I spend a week in the south of France I’m probably going to go dragon-spotting in China.”

Her laugh was a strangely pleasant sound, filling him with a sense of power at having created it. The whole experience was unfamiliar to him – uncharted territory – so he panicked and added: “I suppose I’ll go to Diagon Alley when I can. What about you?”

“I don’t know my uncle that well… I’m not sure what it’s going to be like. I’m happy to be out of the hospital, but I’ll probably miss the castle, and the food.” His stomach rumbled in agreement; visions of porridge and stew and rice pudding surfaced in his mind.

The snack trolley came and went, for neither of them had any money, and the rugged scenery of the north began to give way to fields and hedges. Granger finished the potions textbook and began the crossword in yesterday’s _Prophet_ , but he just stared out of the window at all the landscapes he had never visited, and had the sense of going from one prison to another.

They were back in London by six thirty, which was just as well because it took him almost two hours to walk from King’s Cross to Vauxhall carrying his battered suitcase. He entertained the idea of going somewhere else but suspected it might earn him another visit from Dumbledore.

Mrs Cole answered the door, drink in hand as was her custom after the younger children went to bed at eight. She stared at him for quite a while before there was any sign of recognition – perhaps this wasn’t quite her first drink.

“Oh. Tom. Come on in.”

He stepped reluctantly over the threshold, noticing the new cracks in the floor tiles and another year’s worth of grime on the faded paintwork. It felt nothing at all like coming home.

 

~oOo~

 

Once Tom had left the platform, Hermione began to thread her way through the crush of hugging families.

“Hermione! There you are.” She stopped, surprised. The voice was familiar but the fact that it was attached to a visible body was not. The man was fairly tall, perhaps forty, with dark hair parted at the side and a kind sort of face. He wore a grey muggle suit that had seen better days, but nevertheless looked well cared-for. She realised she had been staring like an idiot for far too long.

“Erm… U-uncle John. Hello.” There was a definite spark of amusement in his eyes which would have been unnoticeable to anyone else. He picked up her trunk, leaving her with just the owl in its transfigured cage.

“Shall we?” In his other hand was a flat cap, and he used it to gesture towards the barrier.

She had never much liked walking at the solid wall, and preferred to do it with her eyes shut, so she did not immediately see the new destination. Her first thought was _it’s very windy inside King’s Cross today_. When she began to hear birdsong, too, she opened her eyes.

The sun was bright; too high, in fact, for after six in the evening. They were looking out at a field of crops, waving in the warm breeze.

“What day is it?” She asked, when she had regained some brain function. Her companion chuckled.

“Good question, but don’t worry, we’ve just gone back a few hours. I wanted to get home before _he_ gets home – well, you know, before _I_ get home. Gosh, it’s all a bit confusing, isn’t it?” She merely raised an eyebrow, still not really understanding but thinking that one could wait a long wait for something around here to make sense. She turned around, realising she was stood on a doorstep. _At Death’s door_. For once it was literally rather than figuratively.

“Is this your house?” It looked old – unsurprisingly. The stonework was rough, and though the door appeared more modern than the rest of the façade it still wouldn’t have looked out of place in a medieval church.

“Obviously.” He raised his hand and the door juddered open, allowing a view of the space within. She entered curiously.

Though the sun outside was warm, the inside of the house was cool. The main room ahead of her was some sort of banqueting hall with a table large enough to seat perhaps twenty. Tapestries decorated the walls and a low fire burned in a huge grate; incongruously, a grandfather clock stood in one corner, currently reading 3.34. The overall effect of the décor was peculiarly homey.

“Ah, Nifty! This is Hermione.” She turned around and saw that a house elf had appeared while she was preoccupied. He was wearing a smart black apron monogrammed with the letter _N_ in silver, and levitating a tea tray. Upon being introduced, he bowed low in her direction. She smiled.

“Will master be liking his tea in the sitting room or the garden?” It looked odd to see someone in 1930’s muggle attire holding a conversation with a house elf, and she wondered if it were odd for the elf, too.

“The garden, please, Nifty. You’ve all done such a lovely job with it.” The little elf led them joyfully out of the room. Hermione was too busy being happy to see a wizard treating an elf with respect to notice where they were going.

The heavy oak door opened out onto an enclosed courtyard where a table with several chairs sat on a neat patio next to an ornamental pond covered with lily pads; roses, wisteria and honeysuckle climbed the surrounding walls. Opposite the house, the gaps in the wrought iron gate revealed a glimpse of the meadow and woodland beyond. Hermione had never seen a place more like a picture book.

Nifty set the tea tray down on the table and left with another bow. She was still gaping at the scene and was only vaguely aware of the set of eyes appraising her reaction.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, at last. Zorion – or should this form be _Uncle John?_ – looked uncomfortable with the praise.

“Yes – er – you see, when one lives such a long time… One tries to make the best of it. I can’t take any credit, of course, it’s all the elves’ work. Tea?”

With the tea there was bread and butter and strawberry jam, so it was a while before either spoke again. Sun was pouring into the courtyard; coupled with the humming of the bumblebees and the scent of the flowers, the effect was that she temporarily forgot everything that troubled her.

“I assume that’s not how you really look?”

“No. You gave me the idea, actually – that hilarious story about Polyjuice potion. Wasn’t invented in my time. I made a few adjustments so that the effect will last until I undo it.” Hermione felt that now, if ever, wasn’t really the time to enquire as to how.

“I don’t suppose you can change me back? You know, to my real age. Just for the summer. You’ve no idea how weird it still is, being like this.” His expression went from surprised to sympathetic to puzzled in the space of a few seconds.

“Well, it was easy enough when you were dead… I’ve never tried it on someone living.”

“Kill me, then.” He blinked several times, rapidly.

“Pardon?”

“Kill me. Then send me back as my true self.” Perhaps her lack of concern for dying was moderately worrying, but in the scope of all her other problems she felt it was rather minor.

“I – I… No! I couldn’t. Don’t be silly. I couldn’t.” She had assumed that Death himself wouldn’t have had much problem with the idea, but apparently she was wrong.

“But you kill every day!” He looked so hurt that she suddenly felt awful.

“I _transport_ souls, I don’t _kill_. I don’t! I’ve never wanted to kill anyone. I swear it.” She decided not to notice the way he had chosen to say _never wanted to_ rather than _never have_ , and reached for his hand impulsively. It felt different to that first touch months ago that had imprinted itself onto her lonely mind.

“Sorry… I’m sorry. Maybe you can work out how to do it without me dying?” A burning feeling began to crawl up her arm from where their hands were joined. The itch spread, until suddenly she experienced a sensation as if every bone in her body was simultaneously broken. Her scream was cut off as the pain in her chest made producing it impossible. Dimly she was aware of Zorion having risen to hover over her, but then everything went fuzzy and dark.

When she opened her eyes, she was looking up at the sky. Zorion was crouched beside her, and he helped her get up again.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I suppose that was… quite predictable, actually, but I wasn’t thinking. Here you are.” He waved his hand and the air in front of her became reflective, showing her eighteen-year-old face. She immediately forgot about the ache in all her joints.

“Oh! Thank you!”

“I can see why you prefer to look like this,” he said, before going really quite red and turning away. She had no idea what to make of it, not being used to compliments _or_ grown men being embarrassed. Instead, she opted for asking where the bathroom was.

The journey to the bathroom ended up being a Nifty-guided tour of the whole house, kitchen garden, outbuildings, meadow and woods. The little elf had a thousand things to say about each place, and it was only when a distant bell sounded that he squeaked and exclaimed that he’d almost made Miss Hermione late for dinner.

Dinner was brown trout with vegetables from the garden, as if to mock her for thinking she might miss the food at Hogwarts. The younger Death joined them, invisibly, and she got the feeling that he wasn’t too happy at the invasion of his solitude. After the plates were cleared away, he retired to the sitting room and they went back out to the courtyard alone. The breeze had dropped, leaving the evening air pleasantly warm.

“You seem like two different people,” she said, as the crimson twilight set fire to the poppies in the meadow and a pair of bats flicked by overhead. He was quiet for a long time.

“I suppose sixty years is a while, even for me. He doesn’t understand my motives in coming here – in bringing you here.”

“Neither do I.” It was always going to be a sore subject, she thought.

“No. I know. I’m going to tell you something…” She didn’t dare speak, wondering what it could possibly be and ready to explode with anger if something terrible had been hidden from her.

“I’ve been so selfish.”

“You don’t say?” It was out of her mouth before she could stop it, and then she felt childish.

“I deserve that. Look. I sent you back because I had this mad plan. It wasn’t thought through very well, because… that night you died, I was so sure they would be joined together, I couldn’t bear it any longer. It shouldn’t be just anyone who unites the Hallows. And that night… I had two chances to be free.” His eyes carried a faraway sort of expression.

“This is somehow about the Hallows? You want someone to unite them? I thought it was about… _Voldemort’s_ soul.”

“Ah, well… yes… and no. You must think me a monster. But, you see, I’ve been doing this job for so long. Everyone and everything I knew in life is so long gone and I – I just want to cross over.”

“So what do the Hallows have to do with this?” Her temper was feeling quite short, though she wasn’t even really sure why. When she watched him produce a chocolate frog card from inside his jacket, she almost exploded.

_Pythagoras (c. 570BC – c. 495BC) was an ancient Greek wizard who set up a school of magic in what is now southern Italy. Pythagoras travelled widely, learning about the use of magic in different cultures, and was presumed dead when he did not return from a trip to India in 495BC._

“Pythagoras went to India to find the Varanasi Chest. It was rumoured that whoever could open the chest would receive eternal life. He found it.”

“Yes, great, but I still don’t see what this has to do with–”

“Each Death must set a task. A legend, passed into folklore. The one who completes the task shall become the master of Death… take Death’s place.”

Of all the things she had ever wondered about the Hallows, _that_ had not been among them. It was hard to process. Harry… Harry had been so close to having them all! Thank goodness he had not. Suddenly the final, horrifying piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

“You want it to be Tom Riddle.” In the silence that followed, you could have heard the proverbial pin whistling through the air even before it made contact with the floor.

“Yes.”

“You – you – _bastard_!”

“I think you’ll find it’s quite an elegant solution–”

“Elegant?! He’s a mass murderer!”

“He _was_ a mass murderer. Although, I grant you, he has already technically murdered _you_.” Even though he was trying to hold in his laughter, it still annoyed her.

“And you want to reward him with the eternal life he’s so desperate for?” That shut him up. He looked at her squarely.

“There is nothing – _absolutely_ _nothing –_ rewarding about eternal life. Not for me, and not for Tom Riddle. In life he became something terrible. As Death he could not do those things. And yet he is one of the few powerful enough to take on the role. That is why I call it an elegant solution.”

Time passed until eventually the courtyard was cloaked in darkness. Hermione conjured a jar of bluebell flames and watched them cast strange shadows on Zorion’s tense face.

“I see what you mean,” she said, finally. “But I still don’t understand why I’m here.”

“I suppose… you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I knew Tom would need someone, and it couldn’t be me. When I saw your soul, I knew it was the one. I’m sorry.”

“So you’ll get to die, and I’ll be stuck here in the wrong time with nobody. Thanks, again, for that.” As she swept angrily back into the house, she did not see his conflicted expression or the hand he reached out but stilled before it could stop her retreat.

 

~oOo~


	17. Chapter XV: Nero Germanicus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and comments, it's great to hear your thoughts.

 

~oOo~

 

Hermione went straight to her room, though the worst of the anger had already gone by the time she arrived. What was left was a terrible emptiness, and for a moment it was like losing Harry and Ron all over again. She undressed for bed, not even bothering to brush her teeth, and rummaged around in her trunk for her pyjamas.

 They didn’t fit.

Of course they didn’t fit – she was six years older than last time she put them on! There had been so much happening earlier that she hadn’t given much thought to the practicalities of ageing. She examined her previous outfit more closely. It was definitely the same knee-length, round-collared blue dress she had been wearing all day, but equally definitely it should be much too small. Some skilled alteration must have taken place. Now that she considered it, she thought perhaps she remembered it tearing just before she passed out. There was only one logical explanation, and it really put the cherry on top of the way she was currently feeling.

Zorion had seen her totally naked.

 

~oOo~

 

Church and the Sunday chores seemed to drag on forever, but finally he was free. London blurred under his feet as he ran – unencumbered by a suitcase this time. Last summer there had rarely been a specific destination in mind, but now there was only one street in the city he wanted to visit.

Diagon Alley was just as good as he remembered. Even after a year at Hogwarts it was a bit peculiar to pass shops selling owls and broomsticks and cauldrons, and lots of the window displays contained objects whose purpose he still had no idea of. A familiar sort of voice startled him out of his examination of a table of used books outside Flourish and Blott’s.

_“Him?”_ The speaker was a middle-aged man, and though Tom had never set eyes on him before it was immediately obvious who he was.

“Yes,” said Abraxas, who was a miniature version of his father in every possible way.

“Sweet Merlin. He’s dressed like a _muggle,_ Abraxas, honestly. I thought I’d raised you better.”

“Yes, father.”

Tom was frozen to the spot; there was no crowd to disappear into and Malfoy senior was blocking the entrance to the shop. He felt completely helpless with the knowledge that he could not even use magic.

“ _You,_ boy.” He raised his eyes out of habit, then wished he hadn’t because otherwise he might have missed the terrifying expression on the pale man’s face. “Answer me when I speak to you!”

“Yes, sir.” It was out of his mouth reflexively before he had even had time to think – his old schoolmaster had always used the same phrase, and the cane would tend to follow.

“ _You_. Are. Not. Fit. To. _Serve_. Him.” He jabbed Abraxas roughly in the shoulder.

Tom’s silence earned him a triumphant sneer, followed by a sensation not unlike a giant electric shock. It was worse than the cane, but he refused to react to it. The sneer turned icy.

“If it were up to me, you’d rot in Azkaban. Luckily for _you_ , the Headmaster has decided to protect you – _this time_. But if you… if you so much as _look_ at my son again –” he took a step forward, looming over Tom. The final words were hissed directly into his ear. “They will never find your body.”

They were gone in a flourish of extravagant robes. He was shaking slightly – whether with anger or fear was hard to say. The sunny street had somehow gone cold; passing people’s expressions now seemed hostile and the hooting of the owls was no longer cheerful. He returned in a daze through the Leaky Cauldron and didn’t look back once all the way to the Vauxhall Bridge.

 

~oOo~

 

_Dear Tiggy,_

_I hope that you are having a lovely summer so far. I have been staying at my uncle’s house for a week now, and it is very pretty. There are so many flowers in the meadow and there is a pond with big fish in it. I have been walking in the countryside and it is a nice change from Hogwarts, but I miss your company._

_Have you found any new books to read? I will try and bring you some in September. Take care of yourself, and say hello to all the others for me._

_Love from,_

_Hermione_

She sealed the envelope and gave it to the owl, who she had taken to calling Luna in spite of the fact that she had never seen it wearing earrings made of out vegetables.

Her days, apart from time spent with Nifty, had been solitary. She explored the house and the garden, then the meadow and woodland. Strong wards protected the property, which was looped on three sides by a small stream; beyond, farmer’s fields of wheat and barley extended in all directions. The weather had been dry and bright, but today grey rain fell in sheets and pooled readily on the hard ground. Luna took one lazy look outside, then stretched as if for comedic effect and closed her eyes again. Hermione couldn’t really blame her.

The round-arched window of her bedroom looked out over the vegetable garden. The room had a particularly _clean_ sort of feeling, leading her to believe that it had been out of use for some time and then scrubbed viciously ready for her residence. There were no decorations except the torches on the walls, but it was pleasant enough.

It took her a while to notice that she had used magic to dry the ink on the letter. It was such a habit; being a furious writer with pigment ink had led to far too many mishaps years ago. Had she used any other spells…? Bluebell flames! She hadn’t even thought about it! Her heartbeat started to accelerate as she remembered Harry’s dreadful Wizengamot hearing all that time ago.

Logically, though, nothing seemed to have happened. How long would it take for something to happen? Would a letter arrive one day? Or could they not detect magic here? Did the Trace even apply to her at all? Without knowing how it worked, she couldn’t predict the answer. The only thing to do was wait to be sure.

 

~oOo~

 

Zorion couldn’t work out what would be the right words to make it all better, or if that were even possible. The next day turned into the next week and still every time he heard her footsteps he found himself retreating in confusion. She was out of the house most of the day so they saw each other only at dinner where there was a tense sort of formality to their interactions.

The elves loved her. Perhaps it was that they had never had a visitor before, but he thought it were more than that. Nifty, particularly, could be found trailing around after her everywhere. Apparently Miss Hermione was teaching him to read; he wondered why he had never thought of that. The more time he spent anywhere near her presence, the more he came to like her. She was quite unique – in even more ways than he had anticipated, from the way she could recite something he told her six months ago to the fact that she would seek the companionship of house elves.

However, it was neither her mind nor her personality that had begun to keep him awake at night, and perhaps that was the true source of his instinct to flee her company. If only he had never given her back her true form. If only he had foreseen her bones breaking and growing until her clothes didn’t fit anymore. It was some comfort to him that his intentions had been nothing but honourable – but that didn’t erase the sight of her naked body from where it had taken up residence just behind his closed eyelids.

Living for a millennium had given him a rather confused idea of morality, certainly, but he was pretty sure anyone would struggle in this situation: it was quite exceptional, after all. Was it him being so old that made it wrong? Perhaps, although it wasn’t as if he could fantasize about someone his own age. Was it the fact that he had seen her at eleven? Well, he certainly hadn’t been having these thoughts _then_. And anyway, she hadn’t truly been the child she appeared to be. Was it the fact that she was staying in his house? It wasn’t like they were related. Anyway, she would never know; he wasn’t about act on it outside the privacy of his own mind.

In truth, there was really only one thing making him feel ashamed as he lay in bed, heart racing in the aftermath: memory. It felt like a betrayal in a way that imagining himself with nameless women did not. He had been faithful to his love for a thousand years! A thousand years, even though she would not speak to him. It had been the thought of their reunion that kept him going through everything; she would see how much he had changed and surely, surely everything would be forgiven. That had always been all that really mattered.

Always… until now. It was strange to acknowledge it – terrifying, even – but that night in the courtyard, he had cared. He had _cared_ about Hermione’s future, _cared_ about her opinion of him, _cared_ enough to want to protect her, even from himself. In his mind the scene replayed, but this time his hand did connect with her wrist. He pulled her small frame into his arms and soothed her and told her he would never leave while she still wanted him to stay. Then his mind would run further and further away with him, until he had her writhing in his bed and breathing his name – his true name – over and over in her soft voice.

Oh.

Oh, _Odin_. Odin and Zeus and Jupiter and every other name ever taken in vain.

He was utterly doomed.

 

~oOo~

 

After the trip to Diagon Alley, Tom spent a full week in his room – if it could be called a room. His old one had been given over to a more permanent resident of the orphanage, leading to his relocation to a previously unknown corner of the attic space. It was also home to most of the spiders in London, and water tended to seep into one corner every time it rained, but neither of those things particularly bothered him.

He was confused and bored, which was a uniquely frustrating combination. Muggle London, which he had been so voraciously exploring since gaining his freedom at the age of ten, no longer held so much appeal. He had always known that he was different – _better_ – than everyone he had met growing up, but it transpired that people in the magical world were just as stupid and just as prejudiced. He didn’t want to admit that he was a little scared of going back to Diagon Alley, so he told himself that it was silly to go when he had no money anyway.

Tom liked whinging and whining about as much as he liked watery porridge and having to talk to idiots, but he still found _not fair Not Fair NOT FAIR_ getting stuck on a loop inside his head. He was related to Salazar Slytherin! He was smarter and more powerful than everyone else in his year. He worked harder than anyone – had started out with less than anyone. He deserved better.

He had had enough; slamming the door with more force than was strictly necessary, he stomped downstairs with no destination in mind.

“Erm. Hello?”

It was a red-headed girl, maybe slightly older than him, and he had almost walked right past without even seeing her.

“Hi,” he said, still walking. Nobody ever spoke to him round here – she must be new. He noticed with irritation that she had begun to tag along.

“Sorry, I think I’m lost. Mrs Cole sent me to fetch some towels from the laundry room… Um. I’m Elizabeth, by the way.” She spoke with an accent he couldn’t quite place, and in fact that was probably the only reason he had been listening at all.

“Like the Princess.” _What the bloody hell? Did he really just say that?_ She smiled in confusion and he turned his face away to get his expression under control.

“Well… yes, I suppose. I was named after me mam too… What’s your name?” Since he was still reeling from the previous ridiculous outburst, he blurted out “Tom,” but managed to stop just short of adding that he was named after his (stupid) father. Since they had reached the laundry room, he directed her inside by way of extricating himself from the conversation; it backfired, she kept chattering, and he ended up carrying half the towels.

“Where you going, anyhow?”

“Out.” He couldn’t have been more specific even if he had wanted to – which he didn’t. He hadn’t anticipated her cheerful expression.

“Oh! You can show me around! I’ve never been here before, I’m from Newcastle, me dad worked on the dock, but when he died mam brought us here to be with Jessie except –“ Tom tuned out. He had never heard someone talk so much, all at once, without taking a breath. It was hard to think, and soon they were at the front door and he hadn’t found a reason why she shouldn’t come with him.

“Wait there! I’ll just put them towels down.”

He couldn’t explain why he waited, but somehow he did, and then they were strolling along Kennington Road side by side. By the time they reached the park he had stopped bothering to think of a way to get rid of her.

 

~oOo~

 

The first time she dreamt of Zorion, the only surprising thing was that she was _not_ surprised. Probably the only reason she hadn’t been doing it since Christmas was that he had not, at that point, had any visible form to dream about.

She liked the way he looked: at least, there was nothing to dislike, except the fact that it was not really him. Her brain chose to ignore this mildly unsettling fact, instead fixating on his dark eyes and strong hands and quick mind. As if that were not enough, he had said he liked the way _she_ looked. Alright, not in so many words, but it was still the best compliment she had received since… She couldn’t remember the last time someone had noticed her – not counting Ron, who never had actually voiced it. It was probably at Slughorn’s stupid party. No wonder she was desperate.

The dreams were vague, at first. She remembered snatches of images; moonlight and soft kisses. Later, she began to imagine his hands undressing her as she did the same to him, the mood becoming more and more frantic. Twice, she woke up just as he began to enter her body, and could have cried out in frustration. Perhaps it was her subconscious deserting her at the point her real-life experience ended, but her imagination was more than able to continue once awake.

She was sure he must know her thoughts just by looking, since she probably went red every time they saw each other. If he did, though, he made no mention of it. In fact, they had hardly spoken at all since the first night. It didn’t feel like he was waiting for an apology, not that she was about to offer one despite her initial anger having worn off. Equally, he had not brought up the subject of Death again. He seemed rather lost in thought, and she could only wonder at exactly why.

The dreaded letter from the Ministry never came, and buoyed up by this fact she used her wand for a few deliberately simple spells. When this seemed to produce no reaction either, and three weeks of summer were already gone, she decided it was worth trying to venture further afield. The thought was surprisingly daunting: she needed a plan.

 

~oOo~

 

If anyone had ever told Elizabeth that Tom was not someone to be friends with, she had evidently paid them no attention. As soon as their chores were done she was always right beside him, asking where they were going that afternoon. He told himself he was tolerating her presence because her sister often stopped by and gave her a shilling which she would inevitably share; in truth, he also liked the way she hung on his every word in between her own constant chatter.

On the first Friday in August, as ever, they were all shepherded onto the coach to Eastbourne. Years ago he had thought it as fascinating as Diagon Alley had seemed last summer, but now it felt unbearably childish. Even if it was sunny the sea was freezing, the smaller children spent the whole bus ride shouting, and the tuppence they were each given tended to last about five minutes on the pier amusements. All in all, he hadn’t been much looking forward to it.

That was until he saw Elizabeth in a swimsuit.

He didn’t know where to look – well, he _did_ , and that was the problem. It was producing a reaction that had never happened when looking at any of the other girls in their inevitably badly-fitting, second-hand outfits. He ran into the water until it was well above his waist, despite not really being able to swim, and for once praised the arctic temperature.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and by the time they were sat together on the ride home he could just about look at her without going red. He had simply been taken by surprise, he reasoned – next time, he would be able to control his reaction and enjoy the moment without embarrassment. He just needed (somehow, in the last few hours, it had become his number one goal) to make sure there was a _next time_.

 

~oOo~

 

It had been almost a year since she had last apparated herself, so it was a relief to appear in Diagon Alley in one piece. The passageway behind Ollivander’s was absolutely identical to how she remembered – neighbouring popping sounds indicated that it was still (or, rather, _already_ ) a popular place to arrive. She moved along quickly.

The busy Wizarding district was largely unchanged; Flourish and Blott’s, Gringott’s and Quality Quidditch Supplies still occupied the main street and mothers ushered small children past ice cream sellers and displays of pets and broomsticks. Even the fashion in robes, while perhaps moderately more formal, was much the same to her eye. Today, though, her quarry was muggle in nature.

Outside the Leaky Cauldron, the differences of the era were startlingly more apparent. The road, jammed with cars all day in her original time, was unoccupied except for a solitary bus and several people on bicycles. The buildings across the street were totally changed; bombed out in the war or knocked down at a later date, she supposed. Wanting to blend in, she began walking briskly.

As a lone female she seem to attract a few strange looks, but ignoring them she continued down one street then the next, passing St. Paul’s and Smithfield Market and Sadler’s Wells. So many buildings were unfamiliar to her, and yet somehow the city _felt_ mostly like she remembered.

Islington was… cramped. Washing fluttered from every high window; children chased through the streets, dodging pedestrians, the odd car and even a horse and cart. Shops and houses crushed together in no apparent order, the smell of baking bread and motor oil and fish mingling oddly in the breeze. Life everywhere. _Perfect_. _Now to choose my home._ Since she had had to fight off TB – without antibiotics – for the sake of a cover story, she thought she might as well go the whole nine yards. Nobody would ever find out her secret unless she wished it.

 

~oOo~

 

The Kennington Park lido was _bright_ – that was the only word for it – all white and blue tile and white concrete and sparkling water. Convincing Elizabeth to spend half of her latest shilling on getting them inside had been surprisingly easy, so in return he made a valiant effort to listen as she talked about the beach at South Shields and how her brothers had taught her to swim and how she missed them but they had jobs and families of their own now and couldn’t come to London to visit but at least she had Jessie.

It was the hottest day of the year and every inch of grass around the pool was covered with people reclining in the sun, a high wall shielding them from the picnics and football games of the park beyond. To his hormone-clouded mind, the sight was infinitely more interesting than all the attractions of Diagon Alley. For probably the first time ever, he forgot about the magic humming along inside him; forgot that he was any different to anyone else who had come to enjoy this inner-city oasis.

Elizabeth tried her best to teach him to swim – an occupation he encouraged as it meant she stayed very close – but he wasn’t quite as focussed on the task as he might have been. When his uncoordinated efforts had worn him out, they retreated to a tiny spare patch of grass and she even let him share her ice cream. It was strange, but for a moment he was not _angry_ about anything at all. He wondered if that was what happiness felt like.

 

~oOo~

 

_DEar miss HErmionE,_

_thank -you for your lEttr. nobody EvEr sEnd lEttr to hogwart Elf bEforE thE others thort must bE mistak._

_your nEw housE sound vEry nice. is to qwiEt hErE._

_Tiggy try to rEad but somE othErs makE fun say Tiggy not work hard nuf Tiggy scrub flors for punishmet._

_Tiggy miss frEnd._

 

He hadn’t particularly meant to read the letter, but it had been left on the table in the courtyard and was in danger of blowing away. The writing was shaky and uneven – done with a pencil that was blunt enough to tear occasional holes in the parchment. On the reverse, the words of Hermione’s original message marched along in neat rows. Her kindness to the elf was oddly touching.

_Hermione_. She had thought of him, the way he had thought of her. It was written all over her face whenever she looked at him, and he didn’t know how much longer he could resist the temptation. He told himself that the holidays were almost over; she would be twelve again and far away for months. Plenty of time for him to get over this…this… whatever it was.

 

~oOo~

 

“You said you’ve been Death for about a thousand years, but Pythagoras must have lived… more than two thousand years ago,” said Hermione pensively, as they were sat with a glass of firewhiskey after dinner one evening. She had never before seen the appeal, but now found something sensual about the burning sensation. That and she swore he always watched her drink it – subtly – as if it were something erotic. Or was that her imagination? She stared into the amber liquid and wondered what it would taste like on his tongue.

“ – Are you even listening?”

“Uh – um... Sorry. Miles away.” It was lucky it was getting dark, because her face was burning and _that_ had nothing to do with the alcohol.

“Honestly! I _said_ –” and here he looked straight at her, playfully, as if to make certain of her attention – “I wondered when you were going to ask that. Actually, there were three others in between us.”

“Oh! Who were they?” It was fascinating, almost forbidden knowledge, and she was desperate for it. He chuckled softly.

“You ask too many questions.”

“You don’t give enough answers.” They stared at each other for some while, and she was increasingly aware of her own heartbeat. Was this what flirting was? Was the tension really there or was it all in her head? The moment was broken as he smiled and reached into his jacket pocket.

“Good God, do you carry around the whole set in there so you can always have the right one for the occasion?”

He smirked and handed her the card, and she felt the brush of his fingers as if they were on fire. Surely it was possible to hand a card over without touching. Had it been deliberate? _Oh, get a grip, you’re going insane!_

“Aren’t you going to read it?” His teasing tone made her wonder if he could sense the direction of her thoughts.

_Nero Germanicus (1 st Century AD) was a notoriously vain wizard who tricked muggles into making him the Emperor of Rome. When they became angry at his poor governance, Nero faked his own suicide and went into hiding. His fate remains unknown._

“Oh, I’ve heard this story before. It was a big mystery, wasn’t it?”

“So I’ve heard. He was the most famous wizard of the age – no wonder, pulling a stunt like that. Some said the muggles found him. Some said that he was killed by wizards for damaging muggle relations.”

“But you know what really happened.”

“Naturally.” His expression was terrifically smug; she felt it ought to be annoying but somehow it suited him and that was causing something in her brain to short-circuit.

“Tell me.” He remained silent, and she added, “Please.” It came out quietly, a bit like begging, and suddenly she wasn’t quite sure what she had been asking for. Did his eyes become even darker? He leaned towards her and extended his hand; for a heady second she thought he was about to kiss her, but he merely took back the card from her limp fingers. When he spoke, he no longer looked at her, and the change in tone made her wonder if she really had been imagining the whole thing.

“Nero was always power hungry. Obsessed with his own image, he feared ageing more than dying. He had heard the legend of the Order of Eternity, but in the end he stumbled upon it totally by chance. Travelling southwards away from Rome, he planned eventually to reach Egypt… Well, he never got that far because he chose to stop in Crotone, where Pythagoras established his school.”

Hermione was barely listening – too busy wondering if she had done something wrong. When she came to the conclusion that she hadn’t, some time had passed and Zorion appeared to have entirely disappeared into himself.

“W-what happened then?” She asked tentatively.

“Oh. He touched a carving in the guildhall, quite accidentally – summoned Pythagoras, who asked if he wanted to live forever. Apparently he was the first in five centuries stupid enough to say yes.”

She was sure there was a bit more to it than that, but the subject was clearly closed. Once the silence had dragged on to a point of awkwardness, she decided to call it a night. It was strange to think that tomorrow she would be twelve again and back at Hogwarts. She was definitely not looking forward to it.

 

~oOo~

 


	18. Chapter XVI: Archer Evermonde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos & comments, I appreciate it. In case anyone was (will be) wondering, yes, evacuation really did begin fractionally before war on Germany was declared. It's strange to imagine the same thing happening now, but that was life for thousands of inner city children in 1939. Scary.

~oOo~

 

Elizabeth was crying and it was his fault – though not for the usual reason it was his fault that girls cried around him. She just didn’t want him to go away.

Mrs Cole had given him an awkward pat on the shoulder and told him to _be good_ before hurrying away to deal with some crisis or other, leaving just the two of them loitering by the door.

“I’ll be back next summer,” he said, stiffly, not really accustomed to this sort of situation. She nodded weakly, sniffing, and then suddenly she was throwing her arms around him and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

It was damp, unexpected, and completely awkward. After a few seconds, when she had released him, he said _goodbye_ in a voice that had gone a bit squeaky and left before anything else weird could happen.

Someone was nailing a poster to all the telegraph poles along the road – he didn’t pay any attention until he noticed the same thing happening on the next street, and the next.

 

**MOTHERS**

**SEND THEM OUT OF LONDON**

The bold lettering was accompanied by an image of a boy and girl not much younger than him. That must have been what everyone was listening to, crowded round the wireless earlier that morning. There was a war coming.

King’s Cross was packed: he had to pay attention to avoid being shepherded along in one of the long lines of children waiting for trains. On every noticeboard the same flyer had been hastily pinned up.

 

_ EVACUATION OF CHILDREN FROM LONDON _

_Friday, 1 st September_

_Up and Down business trains as usual. Main line and Suburban services will be curtailed while evacuation is in progress during the day._

Between Platforms 9 and 10 he took a deep breath, feeling so much more trepidation than he had felt last year. For the first time since discovering the existence of other wizards, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to join them. He wondered if he would ever see Elizabeth again – wondered what would happen to her – and wondered whether he cared. After some considerable time had passed, and eleven o’clock was rapidly approaching, he forced himself to step through the barrier into the other world.

 

~oOo~

 

Dear Zorion,

I hope you don’t mind me writing. I miss talking with you and it’s so lonely here. The weather has been typically Scottish, too – horizontal rain all week.

One good thing is that they’ve given me my own room, which is clearly so all the purebloods don’t risk catching anything from me (Dippet didn’t even try to make up another reason). So at least I don’t have to listen to conversations about which boy is richest or which hair product is best, or whatever it is that twelve year old girls talk about. I remember finding it irritating even when I _was_ twelve.

I miss reading news from the muggle world, though I know none of it can be good. The teachers told us about the war, and of course it’s all the muggleborns are talking about. Lots of them have fathers and brothers who will be called up any day. They’re terrified. I know that history has taught us that our worlds don’t always mix well, but I can’t help but be angry when I see how everyone is sitting back and doing nothing. There’s barely one among the purebloods who could care at all how many muggles die, so long as it doesn’t affect them.

Sorry. I got carried away there. I’ve been keeping that bottled up for a while. You must be far too busy to listen to me.

If you’re not busy, do you think you could spend some time with Nifty? He’s doing so well with his reading. Tell all the elves I miss them.

It’s not even October yet, and I’m already looking forward to next summer, though I’m sure you – and particularly your younger self – won’t share my enthusiasm.

Love from,

Hermione

 

~oOo~

 

_Archer Evermonde (b. 1862) was elected Minister for Magic in 1912 and again in 1917. He is best remembered for enforcing the International Statute of Secrecy during a time of great upheaval in the muggle world. Mr. Evermonde is now retired and devotes his time to breeding Abraxans._

 

Dear Hermione,

Please refrain from making so many apologies, endearing as they are. Let me assure you that I have absolutely nothing with which to occupy myself, though don’t imagine that I wouldn’t make time for you even if I did. Incidentally, I have been continuing to help Nifty with his reading, though he makes it quite obvious that he (understandably) prefers your tutelage.

It hurts me to acknowledge that in the distant past I was in support of keeping the two worlds separate, thinking it best for each to manage its own affairs. There was so much conflict between wizards and muggles that at one time almost everyone agreed. In the present era, your main culprit is one of our ex-Ministers. I enclose his card so you can see for yourself how favourably his cowardly actions have been remembered. However, don’t lose hope and think that all magical folk will shut themselves away. My younger self has been collecting the first souls of the war – Polish wizards and witches who died helping their muggle friends.

It is strange that after centuries of living here without you, a mere two months is enough to make me expect to see you around every corner. All the elves keep asking when you will return, as if hoping I will change my answer to someday sooner.

Zorion

 

He sealed this envelope – the fourth – with shaking hands. It was utterly ridiculous how many drafts he had burnt. This was the least effusive of the four, and he still wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. Somehow, although his head was telling him to write something polite and distant, his quill was hell bent on some kind of poetic expression of sentiment. The internal conflict was driving him insane.

 

~oOo~

 

Dear Zorion,

I wasn’t having a very good day, but getting your letter really cheered me up. I’d like to blame the Slytherins, but actually it’s my fellow Ravenclaws who are the worst – ironic, since they’re supposed to care about intelligence more than blood. I should have picked Hufflepuff or Gryffindor, but there we are.

The weather has improved this week, which was a nice birthday present. Tiggy baked me a cake which was thoughtful. She also drew a picture of the two of us using the paper and crayons I bought her over the summer. I’ve hung it on my wall and it makes me smile! I’m sure Nifty is making better progress with you; you’re a very good teacher.

In case you were thinking I’d forgotten the ‘mission’ – I’ve not seen very much of Tom. Since he almost murdered four of his housemates he’s been in a separate room and I don’t think he really talks to anyone. Perhaps he seems a bit less angry, and more downcast than last year. I’ve been wondering if something happened over the summer.

If only everyone could just stop fighting – the British and the Germans, the purebloods and the muggleborns. Grindelwald. Voldemort. I’m so tired of caring and worrying about it all. Do you ever envy other people their ignorance? It must be lovely to go through life believing you can’t change anything.

I miss you.

Hermione

 

~oOo~

 

Dear Hermione,

It is unforgiveable that after more than a year I was still unaware of your birthday. Please accept my apologies, yet again. Unfortunately my artistic skills leave something to be desired, so I decided against emulating Tiggy’s present. Instead, I’m working on something for you here – you’ll have to wait to find out what it is.

I hope you aren’t letting the words of some arrogant children affect you… it should be rather easy for you to prove that magical power is not related to blood. But perhaps you are saving up the satisfaction for another day, when they become slightly more worthy adversaries.

I don’t think ignorance is ever enviable, but I understand you. Unlike you I deserved my fate – don’t pity me. Until recently I admit I barely cared about anything. My actions all along have been selfish or apathetic. It has taken me a thousand years to come fully to terms with some things I did in youth… in the end there is only one solitary thing I can feel no regret over.

The house seems darker without you in it.

Zorion

 

He knew he had to stop writing – it was doing nothing at all to curb his developing feelings – but every time he got a letter he experienced a euphoric sensation that he couldn’t seem to deny himself. Confusion massed in his thoughts, so loudly he had a permanent longing for a firewhiskey to take the edge off it. When he imagined the two objects of his affection, it was no longer obvious which he would choose over the other. One was such a distant memory; he had barely noticed until it was compared with the clarity with which he could see Hermione in his mind’s eye.

Apparently absence made the heart grow fonder, but he didn’t think anyone had ever meant a thousand years of absence. On the other hand, in the month Hermione had been away he had thought of her constantly. He had never allowed himself to imagine that his former lover might not take him back when they were reunited, but for the first time a doubt began to creep in. This house was his home; the elves and thestrals his friends. Would he swap that certainty for a second chance at the happiness he blew a millennia ago? Was there an alternative? A treacherous voice started up in his mind. _In this house, she would never know. If it didn’t work out with Hermione, she would never know I had been unfaithful._ He tried very hard to shut the voice out.

 

 ~oOo~

 

“You’re even quieter this year.” They were sat together in Charms, as in every lesson they shared by virtue of the fact that nobody else wanted to be associated with either of them. It had taken her weeks to decide on saying anything at all, wondering if it were better to let him make the first move, but that was evidently never going to happen.

“Are they still not speaking to you?” She indicated the other Slytherins.

“Evidently.” She could tell from his tone that she was angering him. It was like talking to a wild animal. She changed tactics.

“There’s a duelling club just started. It says fifth years and up, but anyone can try out for it, in a pair. I wondered if you wanted to go.”

He looked puzzled, though she didn’t know whether it was by the abrupt change of topic or the nature of the request.

“Alright,” he said eventually, and the conversation was over.

It was worrying how little she knew of him and how little she could read him, but pursuing a tentative friendship still seemed like the only smart course of action. Her mind had stopped screaming _Voldemort_ every time she set eyes on him, and that was a start. Was it some sort of betrayal of Harry? Surely he would wish Tom Riddle did not become Voldemort, and if having her as a friend could help that cause… If only Harry were here, because she knew somehow that he would understand and make her feel better about it all.

 

~oOo~

 

Duelling club was held in the Great Hall, presumably because it was the only room large enough to accommodate the long platform that had been erected for the occasion. When he saw Professor Dumbledore was in charge he almost had second thoughts about the whole thing, but Granger was blocking the exit. At any rate, he would probably enjoy a chance to show off.

Plenty of older students were gathered around the platform, but he also noticed a handful of third and fourth year pairs waiting their turn to try out.

Professor Dumbledore was joined on the platform by Professor Merrythought, causing the general chatter in the hall to die away.

“Good evening everyone,” he said cheerfully, and chuckled when a few people shouted the greeting back. Tom grimaced. “Tonight is the first meeting of our new club – thank you all for coming along. To get us started, Professor Merrythought and I shall demonstrate the correct etiquette we expect everyone to follow in these sessions. I’m afraid that anyone who wilfully breaks these rules will find themselves out of the group…But I’m certain that won’t be necessary! Let us begin.”

The Professors performed the bowing and pacing that he remembered learning about in his first ever Defence lesson.

“Today, we are only going to try to disarm our opponent. You may also use a shield charm to deflect their spells. Mr Weasley and Mr Johnson – would you demonstrate this for us, please?” Two older Gryffindors stepped out of the crowd. It was the dullest duel imaginable, and next to him Granger looked equally unimpressed.

They had to wait what seemed like ages while the others got their turn to try the exercise. A couple of third years managed it, and several more of the fourth years, but the rest were dire. He had just come to the conclusion that he could already beat anyone in the school when Professor Merrythought came up to them wearing a dubious expression.

“Hermione, dear… Tom. Are you sure you want to try this? It’s quite advanced. We really only intended the club as a practice for the OWL and NEWT students…”

He was sure the Professor hadn’t noticed, but he saw the flash of smug determination pass over Granger’s face and thought it suited her.

“ _Please_ , Professor,” she said, “It seems like a really interesting thing to learn, and we think we can do it.” Professor Merrythought was clearly trying to prevent them from making idiots of themselves, but stopped short of actually saying so. Instead, she just nodded stiffly and ushered them up onto the platform.

How he longed to cast some proper spells – but now that he was stood up in front of everyone he decided he really didn’t want to get kicked out of the club on the first evening. He bowed with the kind of meticulousness apparently only he was capable of.

She was _fast_. So fast, he didn’t even have time to say the incantation for the shield charm. His wand was sailing gracefully towards her left hand and he took advantage of her lack of attention to cast his own _Expelliarmus_. She of all people ought to know he wouldn’t need a wand for that.

The only person in the hall who didn’t gasp in surprise as the second wand went flying through the air was Granger herself – if anything, she looked quite pleased. Once they were both holding the other’s wand they began to cast again and he was more alert this time.

Her wand felt foreign to him, but it worked perfectly well all the same. They were trading spells at a rate much faster than any of the other pairs - it was exhilarating, that feeling of power dancing through him. The rest of the room had narrowed down until all he could see was the twitch of her wand arm and her ridiculous hair sticking out from her face. She was good – very good – but he was sure he was better, and longed to prove it.

He became dimly aware of talking, which became shouting. Granger clearly hadn’t noticed, and he was damned if he was going to stop and let her win just to see what the fuss was about.

Then he was frozen to the spot – he couldn’t even blink.

At the other end of the platform, Granger was in a similar state, suspended in a comedy action pose with her (his) wand slashed upward.

“I said: ‘ _Thank you, Mister Riddle and Miss Granger: that will be enough.’ –_ Several times, actually.” Professor Dumbledore looked halfway between amused and annoyed, and the sound of snickering reverberated around the hall. Granger looked hugely embarrassed and he fought to keep his own expression neutral.

“Very good, both of you,” continued their transfiguration teacher. “I think you will do exceedingly well… provided that your hearing improves by next week.”

With a flick of his wrist, Dumbledore released the freezing spell and Tom just about managed not to fall over forwards. Granger was less fortunate, and there was so much laughter that he almost felt sorry for her. Seeing a perfect opportunity to act chivalrous in front of the teachers, he went to help her up and return her wand. She accepted his kindness with gritted teeth, and knowing that she saw through the act somehow brought the first genuine smile of the evening to his face.

“I would have beaten you,” he said, as they parted ways in the Entrance Hall.

“Oh? Well, you can _try again_ next week.”

He was already looking forward to it.

 

~oOo~

 

Dear Zorion,

I have so many questions I want to ask but even if you would answer me I know a letter is hardly the place. If you ever wanted to talk about it, I wish you would talk to me, but perhaps you think I can’t understand.

I’m really looking forward to finding out about my birthday present, but I hope you haven’t gone to any trouble. I shouldn’t have said anything, it’s really not important at all.

Tom and I have been going to duelling club together, which is very strange. I keep worrying I’m going to forget to cast (a bit) like a second-year. Or that I’ll remember I’m fighting Voldemort and start trying to kill him! I think he talks to me a little more each day, but I’m worried what he’s planning. He seems quite lost and I think he might have started studying dark magic. I’ve been trying to think of the best way to get the books mentioning horcruxes out of the library, but haven’t had any bright ideas yet.

I wish you would visit me.

Hermione

 

~oOo~

 

The weeks rolled on, with the duelling club becoming increasingly the highlight. He thought perhaps it was Hermione’s favourite time too, because she always seemed to be daydreaming in class and never looked happy whenever they passed in the hallways or the library. In the duels, try as he might, he could never quite beat her – every time he thought he had learnt a new trick, she seemed to have the answer. The Professors looked even more surprised than him, since in lessons she was still barely average.

He wasn’t sure when she had become ‘Hermione’ in his mind rather than ‘Granger’, but somehow it had happened and then there was no going back. Since everyone thought they were friends, they had to act like friends, and as time went by he was less and less certain whether he was acting or not. It didn’t seem to matter much.

There was still nobody else who would be seen speaking to him, but he didn’t really mind since he no longer had any desire to fit in with their old-fashioned ways. In the evenings, since he was stuck in his room, he immersed himself in reading. There could never have been a student who had gone through more of the library than he had; alchemy, divination, runes. Legilimency, curse invention, poisons. Necromancy, ancient rituals, blood magic – though there was precious little of those tempting subjects on the general shelves. He had his sights set firmly on the Restricted Section, where it was obvious all the interesting stuff was kept.

One thing was clear: he was definitely going to be something _great_ one day. Just as soon as he figured out _what_ , there would be no stopping him.

 

~oOo~

 

Dear Zorion,

I’m so sorry if I upset you or scared you off. Please forget I said anything. It’s been nine weeks and three days since my last letter but it feels like nine years.

How did you spend Christmas? Tom and I went to the feast – there were quite a few students there, because of the war I think. I couldn’t stop thinking about last year, and how much nicer that was. Except you left me then, too, and I never did work out if there was a particular reason.

Happy New Year.

Hermione

 

~oOo~

 

Dear Hermione,

I have treated you nothing but terribly and yet you keep reaching out to me. It gives me a hope I don’t feel I really deserve. One day I will give you all the answers, but I admit I dread it. Your good opinion is a precious thing to lose.

As for visiting you, I have another confession to make. I did visit, briefly – I must have had some sort of idea to surprise you, which was stupid in any case. However, I forgot that you were… younger than I was remembering. I think it’s best if I just meet you at King’s Cross.

Again and for so many things, I feel compelled to offer an apology which must seem empty to you.

Zorion

 

~oOo~

 

Hermione must have read the letter a dozen times, becoming more confused with each repetition. What did it mean? She couldn’t decide if he liked her, loved her or merely wanted her – or none of the above and the whole thing was another part of the elaborate charade her life had become. To make matters worse, she couldn’t decide which she wanted to be the truth.

In her logical mind, she knew that she was desperate for affection and Zorion was the only person to have given any in the last year. It was clearly messing with her emotions. It was nuts to spend so much time thinking about him when she didn’t even know what he really looked like; when he admitted he kept secrets from her – things she would apparently judge him so harshly on. When he had brought her into the past away from everything she had ever loved.

And yet… And yet, he seemed so _honest_ in his repentance for the past. And those unknown things happened so terribly long ago. He was unique; had knowledge nobody else alive possessed. She had never talked to anyone like they had talked, and when they were together she felt safe. Safe and almost… happy. Did it even matter what he really looked like? She had been half in love with his mind, his voice and his hands even when he was invisible.

She had no idea what to think, how to feel, or what to write in response. Winter developed gradually into spring and still the letter remained tucked away in her bag, waiting for the right words which never seemed to arrive.

 

~oOo~

 


	19. Chapter XVII: Leonard Spencer-Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and comments so far. I probably should have clarified before, but there *will* be Tomione later on. But obviously not for some time.

 

 

~oOo~

 

Dear Zorion,

The more time that passed, the harder this letter became to write. I’m so confused; I just wish I understood so many things.

I still don’t know what to say, but I saw Cassandra leave this card on the table after dinner and I thought of you of course. It must be brand new, so perhaps you don’t have it yet. She’s been teased quite a bit since her father got shoved out of the Ministry… I’m trying not to find it funny, but not really succeeding.

I’ll see you on the 21st of June.

Hermione

 

The card fell out of the envelope and he caught it neatly before it hit the floor.

_Leonard Spencer-Moon (b. 1874) was elected Minister for Magic in 1939 following an emergency session of the Wizengamot in light of the worsening threat from the Dark wizard Grindelwald. The Minister enjoys country walks and fishing and lists Merlin as the person he would most like to meet._

Zorion smiled, both at the gesture of sending the card and at its contents. Merlin’s reputation and popularity had only grown over the long years, and he was happy for his old friend. How he longed to summon him – Merlin would know what to do about this whole situation. Or at least he would make him feel better about it.

Should he write back? There didn’t seem to be anything to say. He didn’t even know what he was going to say face to face – still didn’t even know how he _felt_. Didn’t know what the plan was, didn’t know what to do about Tom Riddle - didn’t know how to occupy himself in a world where he no longer collected souls. It was a giant mess, and it was entirely his fault.

 

~oOo~

 

The first time he heard it, he was lying in bed and the room was dark. With a flash of fear he lit the wall torch and narrowly resisted the urge to check the parts of the room which still lay in shadow. Silence, then – but it took him hours to find sleep afterwards.

The second time was on the way back from dinner, following a few paces behind Slughorn along the dungeon corridor, so perhaps the Professor hadn’t heard it. He hadn’t wanted to bring it up.

The third was in Potions class, while the room was filled only with small shredding and chopping sounds. There was no way nobody else would have noticed it. Was it in his head?

Tom had always known that he could speak to snakes – they seemed to find him whenever he sat outside for more than a few minutes. It had provided the flashpoint for an uncountable number of playground taunts before he had learnt to send them away quickly, but nevertheless he liked them; liked their soft hissing voices and smooth warm scales and the especially fact that everyone else seemed to be scared of them.

_This_ noise, however, was nothing like the sibilant voice of the grass snake. Not even anything like the harsher call of the adder. Now that he had heard it a few times, he began to suspect the species it belonged to… it sounded so _big_. He could never catch what it was saying, and it never seemed to hear him either. Frustrated, he began to research.

As it transpired, the Hogwarts library had very little to say about basilisks – at least, little about the existence of _this_ basilisk in particular. He found only obscure references to Slytherin and a Chamber of Secrets and a monster inside, presented as to the reader as myth. Would someone really put a thing like that in a school? Apart from the improbability of it, wasn’t it practically as dangerous to friend as to enemy? He couldn’t make sense of it.

One thing was clear, though – if there really was a basilisk, then there really was a Chamber of Secrets. And if there really was a Chamber of Secrets, then he was _absolutely_ going to find it.

 

~oOo~

 

Term dragged on for Hermione, with one day blending shapelessly into the next. Although she kept busy she felt listless, though that itself was, she supposed, better than the terrifying desolation of the year before. Zorion did not reply to her letter containing the frog card – but she hadn’t expected him to. She could no longer tell whether she was looking forward to the summer or wishing it would never arrive.

In her free time, she studied hard and tried not to think about the future. Her wandless magic was beginning to be restricted only by her imagination, though progress on becoming an Animagus was painfully slow. Lessons themselves were tedious; the only thing that challenged her was trying to make each mediocre assignment a tiny fraction better than the last one. In duelling club it was hard to keep her performance believable, as they had begun at a level so much higher than the average student. Fortunately, people seemed to assume that she trained with Tom often and that he was teaching her – an idea that never failed to amuse her.

_Tom_. He was Tom now – just Tom. Not Voldemort, certainly, and not even Riddle, but simply Tom, and when had that happened? Had she really watched him grow for eighteen months now? Physically, of course, as well as mentally and magically; he was getting taller, gangly like Ron had been at that age, though he held himself immaculately as always. There was none of Ron’s awkward slouching, no untucked shirt or crooked tie. The girls had noticed, of course, though the purebloods still refused to speak to him and the others were wary. It was easy to imagine how, in the original timeline, Tom would have already been phenomenally popular.

How different it was now. To his fellow Slytherins he spoke seemingly not at all; to other students, as little as possible; to her, seldom voluntarily, though they could reasonably often be found together. She supposed she was the closest thing he had to a confidant, which was odd given that she was still unsure whether they were friends or enemies – still unsure whether _he_ thought they were friends or enemies, for that matter. Although now that she came to think about it, their interactions had grown considerably less false over time. His charm, which last year he had already begun to use on the other students, was currently reserved solely for the benefit of the teachers. Oddly enough he seemed to appreciate the way she refused to be taken in by his sanctimonious act.

Perhaps that was why Tom respected her, at least, as much as he respected anyone. And while that in itself was probably a good thing, somewhere along the way, without really noticing, she had sacrificed the element of surprise. He knew something of her character; knew she was smarter than she let on; knew she knew magic others did not. In the future it was no longer going to be simple to beat him at anything.

It seemed like her main aim for the years ahead had therefore swung fully from _eliminate Voldemort_ to _save Tom_ , and that made her head hurt for so many different reasons. Why had Zorion gone so quiet on the subject? Was he expecting her to help Tom get the Hallows? With every passing day the idea of Zorion being gone was harder and harder to accept, and on top of that somehow she was starting to feel uneasy about tricking Tom into that lonely future. It was all unequivocally – undeniably – incontrovertibly – a _giant mess_.

 

~oOo~

 

If he were hiding a… doorway, presumably – where would he hide it? Somewhere nobody would stumble across it, or somewhere in plain sight that nobody would ever look twice at? In the grounds somewhere? Maybe, but that would make it hard to come and go, particularly after curfew. It was over a thousand years old, too, so it had to be a part of the original castle that wouldn’t get moved or changed around. Assuming it was inside, the dungeon seemed most likely, but there was still an awful lot of empty wall in the dungeon corridors. An awful lot of flagstones, and statues, and portraits.

He had been cultivating a relationship with many of Hogwarts’ portraits since his first lonely Christmas holiday, and if that had taught him anything it was that the lot of them were gossiping idiots. There was no way he was going to let them catch onto what he was trying to find – no way he was going to go hissing parseltongue at them all in case one swung forward. At least, not until he had eliminated all the other options. Besides, the vast majority of them were far too recent.

If only the snake could hear him then surely it could tell him the way in, but instead he was condemned to wander the hallways like an idiot, staring at all the cracks in the stonework.

“What are you looking at?” The voice made him jump, probably visibly, and he cringed internally. It was Hermione, which was probably preferable to anyone else who might have snuck up on him, but he was still angry with himself. Not to mention he had no good answer – why hadn’t he thought of a good answer? She was staring now, as if something was dawning on her. It was an expression she wore quite often, and it never failed to make him uneasy.

“I just saw something move. But it was only a spider.” The lie was well told, he thought, but she looked doubtful. “What are you doing down here anyway?” Attack was always the best defence – why hadn’t he begun with that?

“I wanted to see where this corridor went… you know, while everyone’s at lunch. I don’t like to run into your housemates.” The way her words accelerated combined with her hilariously transparent expressions told him that she was lying, too – he filed the information away for later but decided against calling her out.

“Just to some storerooms. The ones you can get into don’t have anything interesting in.”

“Oh – oh. Thanks.” And then, after an odd sort of pause, “I’ll just go, then.”

Though she was a terrible liar, there was definitely something about her which he didn’t trust. Sometimes he could swear he was being followed right before she would show up out of nowhere, and he hadn’t forgotten the times last year when he would try to follow _her_ only for her to seemingly vanish. If he let her go now, he knew he wouldn’t be able to shake the feeling of being watched.

“Let’s go to the library.” It was basically an order – the kind of tone which nobody had ever dared talk back to. Though he didn’t recall speaking to her that way before, she seemed unsurprised and even unfazed. They were staring at each other again.

“I don’t need you to tell me what to do, Tom Riddle.” He didn’t like people who didn’t do what he wanted them to. But Hermione had somehow exempted herself from that rule by seeing through his teacher-pleasing charm, and evidently there was no going back. If half drowning her in the lake hadn’t made her more compliant, he didn’t know what would. And he couldn’t exactly risk any more misdemeanours; Dumbledore and the governors were desperate to have him expelled.

“As it happens,” she continued, rendering his potential reaction moot, “I was going there anyway. So alright.” She began to walk away rather abruptly, and he was forced to take a few running steps to catch up so as not to feel as though he were trailing along behind.

“You knew what was down that corridor,” he said, eventually, wondering if a sudden pronouncement would shock her into telling the truth. She looked at him evenly, one eyebrow slightly raised, and he realised there would be no such luck.

“You weren’t looking at a spider,” she said. He gave no reaction, wondering how she knew or if it were merely a lucky guess. “Are you going to try and drown me again?” Her eyes were bright with mischief and he couldn’t stop the laugh from escaping. Did most people find this kind of thing funny? She was so… strange. They kept walking in a silence that might have been described as _companionable_ , which he couldn’t recall thinking about anyone except perhaps Elizabeth. By the time they reached the library he had almost forgotten about the Chamber of Secrets.

 

~oOo~

 

Tom was looking for the Chamber of Secrets. That was the only possible explanation for today’s behaviour. Had he already found it? No, she thought. He would not have been lingering in the corridor like that if he had. She was sure – _sure_ , as she had been since thinking about it in the hospital wing last year – that there must be another way in. It simply wasn’t credible that generations of heirs-of-Slytherin would constantly slide down a grimy pipe. Besides, that plumbing was quite modern. There must be an original entrance.

Where would you hide such a thing? The Slytherin common room? Well, that would give easy access to the right person, but surely it was too busy and too easily discovered. If it was up to her, she thought, she would hide it on the seventh floor. Nobody would think to look for a dungeon entrance so high up – but no, she had to think like a Slytherin. They tended to be good at subtlety but not so good at deductive reasoning… and rather prone to grandiose acts. A Slytherin would only want to put the entrance on Slytherin territory – the dungeon, then. Besides, most of the upper floors of the castle were not built until the middle ages ( _thank you again, Hogwarts: A History_ ).

Tom evidently thought the entrance would be in the dungeons, or at least that it was a sensible place to look. How lucky for her that he had been in the corridor leading to the kitchens just as she was going for lunch; the missed meal was a small price to pay for the knowledge that the heir of Slytherin had realised he had a fifty-foot basilisk at his disposal.

Would Tom set the basilisk on her? Academically, it was an interesting thought. His views on the subject were opaque to her; although he was one of barely a dozen second-years who had never remarked on her muggle heritage, she couldn’t allow herself to imagine he truly had no prejudice. The one thing she felt sure about was that Tom would do anything to avoid being expelled, and it seemed to her that he realised killing other students wasn’t going to go down well.

Whether or not Tom would let the snake out, there seemed little chance that she would find the entrance – and somehow seal it from him – in the week that remained in term time. She could only hope that Tom wouldn’t find it either. Then, at least, she would have the summer to plan. She remembered that she had intended to replicate the Marauder’s Map, but the drive to become an Animagus had pushed it out of her mind. With the map, it would be easy at least to follow Tom into the Chamber if he found it.

More than once it occurred to her to try and open the entrance in the girls’ bathroom. Perhaps she remembered what Ron had said, and if she had enough time and gave it enough tries – _No_. It would be suicide, though ironically that part wasn’t really a problem for her. But it was a last resort. She had no idea how to kill the creature, much less without looking at it. There was no choice for now but to keep an eye on Tom; a task thankfully made easier by his after-dinner curfew. For the first time in several months she was once again certain that summer could not come soon enough.

 

~oOo~

 


	20. Chapter XVIII: Archibald Alderton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos. I'd love to hear anyone's thoughts on how it's going so far, we're just getting to the interesting part :)

~oOo~

 

Given the high drama of her first six years at Hogwarts, it was bizarre almost to the point of disappointment when Friday rolled around and the Chamber of Secrets remained – well – _secret_. Tom had spent practically all of his free time in the library with her, which she suspected was designed to make her forget about his suspicious behaviour in the dungeon corridor, but either way it had left him barely any time to go wandering. Her surveillance during those times had turned up nothing interesting.

On the train, Tom was particularly withdrawn and she found it impossible to guess his thoughts. The journey passed in near silence, both more inclined to stare at the scenery than start a conversation, and on the platform she had barely said goodbye before he disappeared through the barrier to two months of life totally outside her observation. It was unsettling, having spent so much time watching over him.

She caught sight of Zorion while he was still scanning the crowd for her, and for a second the spike of adrenaline created a sensation something like a hippogriff running into her chest. If there had been any doubt about her feelings up until that point, there could be no denying it after. Suddenly she felt nervous, on edge; never mind _butterflies_ , the feeling in her stomach was more like elephants – most terrifyingly of all, she had developed the Lavender-esque urge to check her hair.

None of these symptoms were new to her, of course – quite apart from Ron, she had felt them for _Lockhart_ of all the incompetent idiots! Then for Remus (Professor Lupin, at that time, and _what was it with her and defence teachers?_ ). Then Charlie (and that was a secret she had always planned to take to the grave, but honestly, Ron was lucky she had ever got over what an unappealing fourteen year old he had been). Then Sirius – then even for a brief period, Professor Snape. As much as she had spent the year afterwards hating herself for it; probably unfairly, as it had transpired. Not that any of that mattered now.

In other circumstances she might have spent a while considering what it meant that she had at one time thought herself in love with almost every eligible male she had ever known – or at the very least bemoaned the lack of such males – but then Zorion had spotted her and her heart jumped and stuttered _again_ and the opportunity for introspection was forgotten.

She made her way through the crowd, smiling perhaps a bit manically, though his expression upon noticing her had frozen into something quite blank. There was no grand reunion. He would not meet her gaze, simply steering her deftly towards the barrier, taking one stride to her two. They walked into the wall, but like last time did not appear on the muggle side of the platform.

His eyes, up close, were grey shot through with green; it wasn’t the kind of thing she would usually notice, but since they were filling almost her entire vision it was hard not to. It was several seconds before she began to process everything that must have just happened; they were standing on his front doorstep again, a heat haze shimmering over the field opposite. Time could have been standing still in this spot for all it had changed since last year.

“You might have asked before you took all my clothes off,” she said, lightly, having noticed that she was no longer occupying her thirteen-year-old body. They were still standing much closer than would be considered proper.

His serious expression finally broke, and in his triumphant smile there was absolutely no trace of shame or repentance. _He wants you. He wants you. He wants you._

“And what would you have said?” His comeback filtered into her brain and then down her spine, making her shiver, and she opened her mouth and shut it again because the only thing that was going to come out was _yes please yes again yes now yes yes yes_ and that didn’t seem like the sort of thing she would say out loud. She had definitely gone red. She could tell by his expression, which was even more triumphant than before.

He ushered her inside, breaking the moment perhaps deliberately, and then she was in the centre of a gaggle of elves all talking at once. Zorion closed the door behind them, and winked when their eyes met, and damn it he _knew_ she couldn’t possibly take in anything the elves were saying, not when she had just two seconds ago been made to think of undressing for him and now he was removing his suit jacket with _far_ more care than necessary and loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his collar and _oh_ how she longed to find out what his shirt would feel like under her hands or against her bare skin…

“Miss Hermione?”

Oh sweet Merlin. There were so many pairs of bright eyes looking up at her. She hadn’t heard a word of it.

“Oh, Nifty – everyone – I’m so sorry. It’s just been a very long journey… give me a minute. I’ve missed you all so much.”

Mercifully, this seemed to be taken as an instruction to fetch the tea, and quiet followed once the patter of many small feet had left.

“I believe I owe you a birthday present,” he said after they had stared at each other for several seconds with mounting awkwardness.

“Of course not. I mean… gosh… obviously, that’s _nice_ – lovely, in actual fact – but really, there’s no _owing,_ of course, it’s just a –” His laughter broke off her babbling before it could go any further, which was just as well because she probably could have continued until dinnertime.

“Oh, darling, I’ve missed you,” he said, and it was fond and playful and happy and she was utterly _gone_. “Follow me.”

She probably would have followed him into hell itself (which was sort of ironic given his occupation) so it was a bit anticlimactic when their destination merely turned out to be the courtyard with the lily pond. It was the same as she remembered; blues and greens and honeyed sunlight coating the water in diamonds.

“I think I might make you find it. A little game.” She narrowed her eyes.

“It’s not in the pond, is it?” He laughed.

“No.” There was nothing in the courtyard that hadn’t been there last year – she was sure of it.

“It’s a trick… It’s in your pocket.”

He raised an eyebrow in a suggestive sort of invitation, arms folded across his chest, and she wondered how she kept creating innuendo completely without meaning to. She realised she was staring at his trousers and should probably stop. She didn’t.

“Be my guest,” he said.

In unfamiliar situations she generally favoured the trick of pretending to be somebody who found it normal. So she tried to raise an eyebrow back (which probably resulted in an odd expression, since she couldn’t actually raise only one eyebrow) and stalked behind him in what she hoped was a confident sort of way. It wasn’t helped by wearing high heels on a paved surface – her heels had _definitely_ not been that high this morning. Interesting.

His shirt was cotton, she supposed – very slightly rough against her fingertips, and she had no reason to touch it but she _wanted to_ and it seemed like the kind of thing that somebody-who-found-this-situation-normal would probably do. She could feel the heat of his back radiating through the fabric, so close and solid. Her hands drifted lower, brushing around his belt until they found their way one into each pocket. She was definitely standing closer than was strictly necessary. On a whim she closed the last few inches until her body from breasts to thighs was pressed right against him, and was rewarded with a hitch of breath.

There was only one item in his pockets, and it was made of card.

“I swear to God,” she said, rubbing against him subtly and enjoying his answering shiver, “if that’s my present, I will –”

There was a small cough somewhere below her, and they jumped away from each other as if burned. Nifty was holding the tea tray, eyes even wider than usual, and she felt herself going bright red. Zorion was still turned away from both of them, and when she worked out _why_ she felt another bolt of arousal shoot through her and turned even redder.

“Oh, Nifty, t-thank you. That looks lovely.” The little elf continued to stare for a second before recovering himself, placing the tray on the table and bowing.

“Nifty interrupts master. Nifty will punish himself –”

There were twin shouts of “No!” as they both sought to ensure that there would be no punishing, and then Nifty excused himself in a bit of a hurry and Zorion turned back around and she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his trousers _again_ and she was still bright red and she didn’t feel _at all_ like the somebody-who-found-this-situation-normal anymore. Then he smiled, and handed her the card, and it was still awkward but somehow she knew it was going to be alright.

_Archibald Alderton (1568 – 1623) is remembered for causing the destruction of the hamlet of Little Dropping when he attempted to mix his wife’s birthday cake using magic._

“You knew I’d assume there was something in your pocket,” she deduced.

“Oh? And you think that I would encourage that assumption, knowing it was incorrect, on the off-chance that you might touch me, and as a final joke give you the only card in the set that contains birthday-related humour?”

“You sneaky bastard.”

“Yes,” he conceded, wryly. “I used to get that a lot.” They were staring at each other again, his gaze sincere and affectionate, making her heart beat so strongly and her head feel so light. And if she had been truly paying attention she might have noticed that for the first time in years she was _carefree_ – but she was caught up in the moment, and so said,

“You haven’t tried baking again, have you? Nifty was telling me about that last year…”

“No, don’t worry. Do you give up?” Admitting defeat, she nodded. He turned to the western wall of the courtyard, the one covered in climbing cream-coloured roses, and touched a stone about halfway up – she could just see a cherry motif carved into it. The roses rearranged themselves into an archway and the enclosed stones disappeared. They stepped through, and the wall re-sealed itself behind them.

She gasped. In front of them, in what last year had been an empty part of the meadow, was a smooth lawn enclosed by an extension of the courtyard wall. On this side of the wall the roses were a deep red, and in the centre of the lawn a sapling had been recently planted. She recognised it straight away as a real version of the cherry tree her wand so loved to conjure.

“Oh! It’s – it’s _beautiful_. It’s perfect. Oh! I love it. A real secret garden… Thank you. Thank you so much.”

His expression went from anxious to pleased, and then rapidly onto surprised as she threw her arms around him. It was an innocent gesture – the kind of hug she might have given to Harry – and yet it felt so different. She began to cling tighter, and his grip on her waist tightened too, until she wondered if she would be able to go on without that comforting pressure ever afterwards. She tried to remember all of the moment; the feel of his shirt and his scent and the colour of the sunlight and the sound of the small birds and the complete sense of peace, and wished sincerely that it would never end.

 

~oOo~

 

“Elizabeth?” Mrs Cole was sporting a typically vacant expression, causing his anger to bubble up. “Oh, red hair… northern accent?” He glared and nodded curtly. “I think she went in the first wave. Way back in September.”

“Went. _Where_?” The woman recoiled slightly, and seemed to weigh up whether to tell him off.

“To the country, of course. Away from the bombs. Of course, nothing’s actually _been_ bombed yet, but they keep telling us it’s for the best if–”

“Where _exactly_ did she go?”

“Heavens above, how should I remember? That’s if she ever wrote to tell us. Some of the older ones were sent to families alone.” The interrogation tactic clearly wasn’t working. It took absolutely all of his self-control to pull the frown from his face and replace it with an expression of some sort of concern.

“Please… Please could you go and check? I wish I could write to her, at least, to see how she is.” While Mrs Cole didn’t look entirely convinced by the sudden change of demeanour, she did bustle off in the direction of her office muttering something under her breath. He dodged in behind before she could shut the door.

The room was much as he recalled it; a shabby desk was covered with papers in no discernible arrangement. After some considerable time, and many words which adults didn’t usually use in front of him, Mrs Cole pulled a folder from the rickety filing cabinet. It contained the standard form the orphanage held on each child, and only one other piece of paper.

“You’re in luck, she did write. Home Farm, Glastonbury.”

“Where’s that?”

“Good grief – do I look like an atlas, boy? Now go and wash up for dinner, you’re already late.”

Tom let himself out of the office, suitcase still in hand. Down the corridor to the right, the sounds of cutlery and a mildly unappetizing smell came from the direction of the dining room. To the left, the front door still stood open, providing a glimpse of pavement and the clear night beyond. Nobody was looking. He thought of Diagon Alley – of Mr. Malfoy – and of scrubbing the floors in the nursery and the spiders in the attic room and the lumpy stew and the grey blankets. And he slid noiselessly back out into the street.

_Glastonbury_. He had never been to the countryside, except Hogwarts, and he got there on a train. That would be the thing to do – somebody at the station must know.

It was already gone eight, and King’s Cross was a long way away. Instead, he walked briskly to Waterloo. He had visited several times a few years ago, when something as dull as a train had still been novel to him. It was quiet at this hour; only two trains sat next to the platforms, and the man in the information booth looked to be napping. Tom pasted on his most polite expression and cleared his throat.

“Excuse me.” The man, ruddy-faced with a round stomach and thinning hair, jerked awake and proceeded to act as though he had seen his customer all along.

“Ah... Hello, young man! What can I be doing for you?”

“I was hoping you could tell me how to get to Glastonbury. You see, my –“ and here there was the briefest hesitation, unnoticed by the older man – “ _sister_ has been evacuated there, and I’m supposed to be joining her.” If the man found the story surprising, he certainly didn’t show it. Tom supposed this kind of thing was happening often.

“Glastonbury? Nothing goes direct. You’ll need to change at Templecombe, but you’re just in time. Platform Two – leaves in –” he glanced up at the huge clock face on the far wall, which was currently reading 8.23 – “seven minutes.”

“Thank you,” he said, not quite believing his luck. He wondered if he should ask how long it would take, but when he looked back the man’s eyes had already closed again.

Wherever Temple-whatever-it-was _was_ , it really _wasn’t_ near London. He was unbelievably tired, but didn’t dare fall asleep for fear of missing the stop or running into the ticket collector. He didn’t have nearly enough money for the fare. The wristwatch of the man opposite reached 10pm – 11pm – _midnight_. Woking. Basingstoke. Salisbury. The people leaving the train looked more and more sleepy; the people joining, more and more drunk.

“Templecombe! Templecombe!” He jumped – maybe he _had_ dozed off – 12.45pm.

“Passengers for Templecombe!” The train had juddered to a halt, and he grabbed his suitcase from the overhead rack with difficulty. It half fell on him, causing him to stumble into the man with the wristwatch. Without stopping to apologise, he ran out of the compartment and onto the dark platform where a sign read _Templecombe_ in large, black letters. A group of young men staggered past him, singing, and then the train was gone and he was left alone.

“You alright, son?” He was glad to see the man in railway uniform, because he suddenly felt quite alone and quite far from London – both of which were making him uneasy.

“I’m going to Glastonbury… to see my sister,” he said, looking around at the tiny darkened station with mounting uncertainty.

“Is that right? Well, you’ll have to wait ‘til morning now. Last train that way went hours ago.” Given that it was now after midnight, this wasn’t really surprising. He shivered, only wearing the shirt and trousers he’d had on under his robes earlier. The guard considered him for some time.

“Come back with me. The missus won’t mind you stayin’ in the kitchen. First train’s due in at seven.”

Tom traipsed along behind the guard around the back of the platform to a small cottage. He noticed the neat front garden and the polished kitchen table and the warmth coming from the range, and he patted the scruffy dog and got stared at warily by the cat. But when he thought about it later, it was all a sleepy blur, and soon he was eating bread and butter and waving goodbye and stepping onto the train and saying thank you and _actually meaning it_.

The morning, like the day before, was clear and sunny. The scenery passing the windows was – green. That was really the only way of describing it. It was a greener sort of green than up in Scotland, and when he stepped off the train in front of the sign reading _Glastonbury and Street_ around eight o’clock it was already as warm as he ever remembered it being at Hogwarts.

Now that he had arrived, he realised he hadn’t given much thought to what would come next. In his mind, anywhere except London was insignificantly tiny; finding anyone or anything would surely be the work of a minute. As it turned out, Glastonbury was surprisingly large – having followed the other railway passengers into the centre, it became obvious that that was not where he was likely to find a _farm_. From the marketplace the only green space he could now see was the single hill that rose behind the town – there were sheep grazing on the side. He didn’t know a lot about farms, but that seemed like a good place to start.

The sheep, as it transpired, were unattended, but having come so far he decided to continue to the top for the view of the surrounding fields. It was steep, and the day increasingly hot, so he was grateful for the derelict tower on the summit which provided the only source of shade. Perhaps it had once been a church, but now it was open to the sky and was merely a roosting place for several pigeons.

Once he had got his breath back, he began to survey the landscape. There were an awful lot of fields around the town… an awful lot of buildings that might have been farmhouses. He hadn’t realised how hard it might be to find. He just wanted to find Elizabeth…

The floor under him was moving.

That seemed terribly unlikely.

But it definitely _was_.

He jumped to the side just as a large wooden trapdoor appeared in the hard-packed earth. It looked heavy – oak, probably – the kind of thing you might expect to see at, well, at Hogwarts for example. Though its great age was apparent, it was immaculately preserved. He could _feel_ the magic rolling off it and zinging through the air, but why had it appeared? Where did it lead?

Gingerly, he bent over and extended his hand towards the wrought iron of the handle, the stray magic connecting with something inside himself. His fingers had just made contact when a nearby voice startled him out of his concentration.

“Good morning, Tom.”

 

~oOo~

 


	21. Chapter XIX: Morgan le Fay (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to split this chapter into two halves, so you're getting this update quite early :)  
> For the benefit of non-Brit readers who might not know, the hill Tom climbed is Glastonbury Tor (also known as the Isle of Avalon). It's a famous landmark and has been an important site since the Iron Age. It was surrounded by marshland until the Somerset Levels were drained, hence the idea of it being an island. I recommend it as a good spot for a picnic, but I'm afraid the trapdoor is my own invention...

~oOo~

 

Awkward was not a word that had ever been applied to him. Confident – _arrogant_ , actually – was what he had always been labelled in life. New situations had never bothered him, he was not self-conscious (in this body or his own) and he had always been able to control his more physical reactions. He had been a seducer once upon a time; it was nothing he was now proud of, but he had always read people well, and that often lead to knowing exactly the chain of events that would put them in his bed. While he liked to believe he had left behind the worst of those traits, it was unthinkable that in their place he had become _awkward_.

But that was exactly how he felt; awkward. These were uncharted waters, and he was a thousand years out of practice. She was so perfect, so ready for him, and he was _burning_. But then again she was so young, in some ways so innocent, was it wrong? He had not dared to look at her body on the doorstep, as she had jokingly accused, though seeing her legs in those heels had provoked reaction enough – and who could blame him for playing out a harmless little fantasy like that? There, he had been in control, had enjoyed seeing her blush and stare and forget to listen to the elves.

Her train of thought ran just as he imagined, though he had never thought she really would check his pockets _herself_. Barely one touch, one touch of her body against him and he was so. fucking. hard. Out of control in a way he had never been out of control. She had surprised him, and that thrill built his desire even further. So high that he had entertained the thought of taking her right there in the courtyard; so high that he was dangerously close to being hard _now_ , sat at the dinner table, watching her eat nothing more erotic than a piece of _carrot_ , but imagining her mouth somewhere else entirely; so high that it was absolutely all he could do to conceal his thoughts from his younger self, even though to reveal them would be tantamount to suicide.

But this was not _just_ about sex, and perhaps it never had been. If it were, he would know just what to do – and he knew _exactly_ what he wanted to do – but it was more important than that, and there the awkwardness was creeping in. He had realised it right there in the cherry garden, holding her so tightly, not wanting the moment to come to an end. He had realised that he had _no idea_ what to do next.

He had only loved one woman. Perhaps that was the root of it. Only one woman – and he had not courted her. He had _had_ her, in the basest sense, and then over time something had sort of happened inside himself. Too late, of course, because by then she was irrevocably gone. But the point was he didn’t know how to do it. How to make someone love him. As far as he was aware, it had never happened as his true self. And here, he was starting out on a lie, which surely was not the way to lasting happiness. But he was trapped; trapped because he needed her, and because the truth would drive her away. Trapped, and _burning_.

 

~oOo~

 

“You never told me your birthday,” she said, trying to find a safe topic of conversation as they sat beside the cherry tree in the fading light. Zorion had been behaving slightly oddly since their embrace earlier, and she couldn’t read him well enough to know why. During dinner he had remained entirely silent, almost as if concentrating.

“I don’t know it,” he replied, thoughtfully. “At any rate, it has little meaning after all this time.”

He must have noticed her face fall at his downbeat response because he quickly added, “My mother told me I was born in the summer. That’s all I know.”

She picked at a loose thread on the hem of her dress, wondering if all their conversations would feel so tense from now on.

“It’s the solstice today – Professor Babel set us an essay about it last week. That seems as good a day as any.” He was looking at her as if she had gone slightly mad, but perhaps some of the awkwardness had melted away.

“We used to celebrate that, in the village. There was a bonfire… I never was sure _why_. Silly time of year for a bonfire. There was also a large amount of drinking.” He smiled a small, secret smile. “They haven’t done that for centuries. Well. The bonfire part. I don’t think the drinking ever went out of fashion.”

“Let’s do it.”

“Pardon?” She was just about to get embarrassed when she realised he was deliberately teasing her for her particular choice of words.

“Oh, shut up. Let’s _have a bonfire_. In the meadow, for your birthday.” Zorion chuckled, again as if she were mad, but it was a fond sort of sound nevertheless.

“If you insist. What about the drinking?”

“Fine, we’ll do that too… I always find a fire hazard is lacking something if one remains sober.”

“Yes, quite. Well… shall we?” He extended his hand to help her up – quite unnecessarily, but she took it anyway, and tried not to think about anything else. They wandered out to the meadow.

In the time it took her to conjure the bluebell-flame bonfire and transfigure a picnic rug, Zorion had disappeared and returned with a full bottle of firewhiskey and two tumblers.

“Don’t you ever drink anything else?”

“Well… I’ve been through various phases. Count yourself lucky you didn’t have to visit during the mead years. You have to drink a _hell_ of a lot more of that to get properly pissed.”

“I think you might have a bit of a drinking problem.”

“I think you might have a bit of a _nagging_ problem.” He smirked and handed her a glass, which was quite a bit fuller than she would have filled it.

“Yes, so I’ve been told… Anyway – cheers, happy… _first_ birthday.” She inclined the glass in salute.

“Lots of _first_ things seem to have happened to me recently. I blame you entirely.” He waved his hand at the fire and the blue flames became rippled with shades of silver and purple. In the depths, shadows took the shape of animals flickering and prancing. He was such an infuriating show-off that she almost didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of rising to the bait, but in the end she said, “And exactly how did you come to that conclusion?”

“Well… you didn’t put up a big fight against that crazy woman. I think you wanted to meet me.”

He was doing it deliberately – it was written in every laughter line on his face – but she still couldn’t stop herself gasping indignantly. This time last year she might have gone off on a giant rant on the subject, but the moon was full in the clear sky and the stars were coming out and the fire was dancing and she was too _content_. She let out the angry breath and the tension inside was gone.

“I barely saw her. I suppose I was worn out. Why did it have to be _her_ , of all people...?” He looked surprised.

“I didn’t realise there was a story there.” She looked at her forearm as a snatch of memory replayed in her mind.

“Wait… wait. It’s not there anymore. I didn’t notice – all last summer, how did I not notice?”

Slowly but surely the awful word appeared on her bare skin, mocking her. She opened and shut her mouth several times, not understanding and not knowing what to say. A squeak formed in the back of her throat before she could stop it, and then her eyes were filling up with tears.

His touch on her arm startled her – looking up, she saw that he was staring at the angry mark with a pained expression, stroking the letters lightly with his fingertips. They began to melt away once more, though it was too late to stop the first tears from falling. He pulled her gently into his arms and she choked back a fresh wave of emotion brought on by that act of comfort and held him tightly until the memory had faded.

“What just happened?” It came out muffled by his shirt, but he didn’t pull away and instead rubbed her back soothingly for some time before responding.

“What happened is that I just made the latest in a long line of stunningly poor judgements.” She made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough, and hugged him tighter.

“Last year, when I changed you back, I thought you’d rather not see it. I thought you’d notice straight away, but when you didn’t, it slipped my mind… I’m sorry. I had no idea I’d just reminded you of it. I won’t let you see it again… what was I _thinking_?”

 After a while she stepped out of his embrace, wiped her eyes and let the flames and the moonlight chase the last of the awful memory away.

“It’s alright,” she said, and meant it. “It just – surprised me. The memory of it, well, of how it appeared, was… It’s not important, anyway – I shouldn’t let it affect me like that. It’s – _she’s_ – less than nothing. Let’s… go back. Please. I was wishing you a happy birthday.” She took a second sip of firewhiskey, as if making the toast again, and then he retrieved the glass from her fingers and set it on the floor along with his own.

“You are… remarkable,” he said, in a voice that made her stomach perform a strange flip, and then he was reaching forward and smoothing a strand of hair away from her face and pressing his lips softly to her cheek. It was perfect, and she had breathed “Go on,” before she even realised she was going to speak. His chuckle, so close to her ear, rumbled through her whole body.

“So brave,” he continued, kissing her other cheek.

“So kind.” He kissed her forehead.

“So… beautiful.” And though what was about to happen was perfectly obvious, she still nearly collapsed when their lips finally met.

It was the gentlest kiss she had ever received, and all too soon it was over and he was pulling back. She heard the tiniest whimper of loss escape her mouth.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, and in his voice was the same ragged desperation that she felt inside herself. She smiled and stepped into the gap between them.

“No.”

If the first kisses had been the stars and the moon, the one that followed was the fire; alive and burning and more than enough to make her forget entirely any doubts she might ever have had – what could be wrong with something that felt so good?

He allowed her to undo his tie and attack the buttons on his shirt, but when he returned the favour with her dress it was slow and sensual, almost reverent, and then somehow they were lying on the blanket and she had never felt someone pressed against her quite like _this,_ and it was just right and yet she wanted so much more.

She had imagined Zorion’s fingers touching her all over a hundred times in dreams, but the real thing was nothing similar, and she had never imagined the sounds he would make as she touched _him_ ; soft and low and reverberating through their kisses. Finally she was completely undressed; there was about half a second in which to feel self-conscious before his mouth continued the exploration of his fingers and all higher thought disappeared.

After some time, he pulled away from her slightly and the loss caused her to open her eyes though she didn’t remember closing them.

“Tell me you’ve done this before.” He looked distracted, almost anxious, and it was an expression that looked unfamiliar on his face. Shouldn’t it be her that was anxious, ahead of her first time? But there was nothing except desire. She had spent enough years anticipating this moment, after all – it wasn’t like she had been _trying_ to still be a virgin at twenty.

“No,” she said, having no choice but honesty and not understanding why it was apparently the wrong answer. He bowed his head, hiding his expression, and she started to feel the self-consciousness returning. “Why does it matter? I can’t exactly help it, can I?”

“You’re so… young. I feel like… like the worst kind of person, I –“

“I’m not a _child_!”

“I’ve seen you at _eleven_!”

“That’s got nothing to do with anything! I’m _twenty_ , get over it!” Hermione had never had an argument whilst naked before – it was oddly intimate. He looked up for the first time, mouth open on the brink of an angry retort, but closed it again and instead seemed to consider her carefully. Time stretched on with her staring back at him, unashamed.

“You know, you’re even more stunning when you’re shouting at me. It’s lucky, because I seem to give you plenty of opportunities.” She smiled despite herself.

“I’ll say. You know, you really ruined the mood. I think it would have made a good birthday present, so it’s a shame you missed your chance.” His face was a picture, and she felt a thrill of power to see just how much she was wanted. She kissed him, and the passion reignited so fast that it took all of her willpower to pull away. Getting to her feet, she smiled at his pained expression.

“As I said… a shame.” She slid on her dress as sensually as she could manage, downed her glass of firewhiskey to prove some sort of point, and stalked off before he had managed any reply. It was not something the old Hermione might have done, but it felt a lot like something the new Hermione might do: it felt _good_.

 

~oOo~

 

The timber walkway creaked and groaned beneath his heavy boots – below and to either side, disturbances in the water suggested the presence of small creatures but the night was too dark to discern their outlines. In the still air the bulrushes stood rigid, ominous somehow at this hour, rising above his head like silent sentinels. Heavy cloud shrouded the moonlight; it had been a warm day, and still was, in fact – humid. Perhaps there was a storm coming.

In the distance a fire stuttered on the hillside, and it was in this direction that he was headed. The marsh began to recede as the ground rose, reeds giving way to grass, and there the walkway ended and his footsteps could begin to fall noiselessly. Though he had acquaintances among the muggles here, he wished to pass unseen now, and so gave the cluster of reed-thatched huts a wide berth. The screech of a fox some way off set the dogs to barking, but fortunately there was no movement from their masters within. He climbed swiftly.

A crude wooden church stood on the summit, little larger than the huts below. It had been constructed some centuries prior, he was told, as a defence against malevolent spirits. Even the muggles could sense the magic here. He could feel it half a mile away; a maelstrom drawing him in until he reached the centre, where power was seeping up from the ground and calling out to him. Though he had travelled far and seen many things, it was this hill which stood out above all the other mysteries. This hill which refused to leave his mind until it began appearing even in dreams.

Past experience caused him to silence the hinges of the church door before trying to open it; his first visit had woken the monk and resulted in a highly regrettable memory charm. So many times now he had made this trip – by night, by day, full moon, new moon, Samhain and Beltane, Midwinter. Tonight was the last day of power he had yet to try: Midsummer. And tonight, he already knew something was different. Tonight, he would find the source of this ancient magic.

The earth beneath him was moving, convulsing, as though some great monster was stirring in the depths. He stood his ground, hands open as if to absorb the power or ready to deflect it. After some time the movements stilled, and having ascertained that the monk slept on, he crept forward towards the centre of the disturbance.

In front of the altar table, an oaken trapdoor had appeared in the floor. The magic hissed and crackled until the very air was thick, _alive_ with it. There was no sense in turning back now; only one direction to go and that was downwards.

The tunnel was barely wider than his shoulders, and pitch dark at first, so it was a relief that the ladder was well preserved. He descended rapidly, the air stale and damp in his lungs, the sound of his footfalls a muffled yet deafening echo in the small, silent space. Down and down and down.

All at once the tunnel opened out into a wide cavern, dimly lit by some unseen source. He craned his neck around for a better view, still gripping the ladder tightly, and was relieved to find the room devoid of other occupants. Clambering hastily the rest of the way down, he was unnerved to find his arms were trembling with the exertion – or worse, from fear.

The space was perhaps twenty paces wide by twenty deep; hewn presumably by magic from the solid rock of the hillside. In the centre, a large round basin contained water bubbling up from below the floor. It ought to have been overflowing, he thought, but was not. Opposite the ladder a shelf protruded from the wall, and it was the object resting on the shelf which truly drew the eye.

It was made from gold – that much was certain even from a distance. A cup of some sort; goblet, _chalice_ even. He crossed the room, and up close could make out a fine inscription around the rim. He had to spin the cup to follow the words where they disappeared around the far side.

_Novissima autem inimica destruetur mors_

“Why,” came a voice – female, but strangely harsh – “if it isn’t the illustrious _Merlin_ … What an _honour_.” Merlin jerked his hand away from the cup, terrified, and turned around.

 

~oOo~

 


	22. Chapter XX: Morgan le Fay (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short, but at least it was fast, right? Thanks for the comments and kudos.

 

~oOo~

 

The woman was slender, with glossy black hair that fell to her waist. Her skin was pale – unblemished – and her eyes dark. In any other situation, he would have found her devastatingly attractive, and she clearly knew it. Her expression was somehow cruel, however, and the room was filled with her presence far beyond that which her diminutive size would suggest. He knew instinctively that her power was greater than his, but it did not do to give that sort of thing away. He drew himself up to his full height and masked his fear.

“Morgana,” he said, taking an educated guess, because if he had ever learned _anything_ it was that confidence always paid off. “I wish I could say the same.”

She laughed, and it had a hint of a cackle about it.

“I thought it might be you, you know, to find it. I’ve heard all about _you_.” He chose to ignore the false attempt at flattery she was making.

“What is this place?”

“ _I_ created it. Centuries ago, to house the Holy Grail… the cup of Christ himself. Drinking from the cup bestows eternal life.”

Her speech was rehearsed; everything about her manner was forced. A bluff or a double bluff? He grasped the cup – took a step towards the water. Caught the manic glint in her eye.

“Why, then, would you wish me to drink from it?” She was flustered, he thought, but hid it well.

“Anyone who can find the Grail is worthy of its gift. That is how the story goes. Please, drink.” She took it from his hands and filled it from the pool, then took a sip. He was torn between wanting to get to the bottom of the mystery and escaping while he still had his life. The mystery won.

“Such a fascinating object,” he said, stalling for time. “Tell me how you came by it.” She clearly did not appreciate the question but saw no choice except to answer, and that in itself struck him as odd.

“I have travelled widely,” she said, which was no answer at all, so he changed tactics.

“If it truly has the power you claim, there must be others. Others to use it before you. Show me.”

“You are mistaken. I was the first to discover it… I took it from the Holy Land, to a safe place near my home. Nobody has come here until now.”

The whole situation was screaming _lie_ ; he could not say precisely why; could not guess her motive. Something was very wrong. Fear started to rise again, and the mystery became less interesting. He began to wish he had never found the trapdoor.

“I have no desire to live forever,” he said. “Death must find us all in time. I am sorry to have… disturbed you.” He tried to disapparate, but the chamber was evidently warded against such an act. Morgana laughed, and it really was a cackle this time.

“You’re a clever one, I’ll grant you. I cannot force you to drink – _unfortunately_ – but I think you will still prove useful.”

He should have been prepared; he was a competent occlumens. But the assault on his mind was brutal, lightning fast, and the chamber began to spin until everything went black.

 

~oOo~

 

Zorion watched the courtyard gate for several seconds after Hermione had disappeared through it, stunned into silence, as it dawned on him that she wasn’t coming back. And then he burst out laughing.

_How_ had he thought her too naïve?! She might never have had anyone before, but she already knew how to play the game. This was even better than he had imagined – she was _perfect_ for him! He dressed quickly, pocketed her discarded underwear, and vanished the fire. Then he downed his firewhiskey and took the bottle back to the sitting room.

His younger self had evidently retired to bed; the room was in darkness but for the last dying embers in the fireplace, though there was a half glass of whiskey on the side. The flickering light reflected oddly off an object amongst the cinders, and he brushed it out of the hearth. Then wished he hadn’t.

_Morgan le Fay, commonly known as Morgana, was a famous dark witch born in the 5th century. Many legends exist surrounding her life and death, leading some to believe that she is still alive. Her body was never found._

Well, that certainly explained why the room had been vacated in a hurry. Frankly he was surprised to find nothing smashed. The rendering of Morgana’s face cackled up at him, though it looked nothing much like her. He felt a familiar sort of anger bubbling up – even after all this time – and reduced the card to ashes with a snap of his fingers. Then he downed the half glass of whiskey on the side and stomped upstairs; it was only the echo of Hermione’s voice in his head that prevented him from taking the rest of the bottle to bed.

The bed felt cold, though the night itself was warm. He had not shared it for a thousand years – and rarely _ever_ for the whole night – so there was no reason to notice the lack of another person now, but somehow he did. It had been a bit of a rollercoaster of a day, he supposed, making him feel several emotions he rarely had cause to feel. He had to try and relax.

It was a matter of seconds before he was hard, and that was scarcely surprising given how close he had been on several occasions earlier. It was only too easy to slip into fantasy; this time it was her perfect mouth on him, and he could so easily imagine the way her expressive eyes would look up at him as she brought him to the edge, cheeks hollowed from sucking him, hands stroking him, and then in no time he was coming for real, gasping for breath.

“I see you don’t need me, then.”

Fuck. _Fuck_. Fuck.

Oh, fuck. She was right there. When had she come in? This was the most embarrassing thing that had ever – _ever_ – happened to him. _Fuck_.

“What did you say?”

Oh, great, he had been swearing out loud. Though apparently not in English, judging by her expression.

“Erm – _fuck_ ,” he said, awkwardly, not having time to think of a lie.

“That took a long time to say.” She was laughing at him, her eyes mischievous, and for the first time since she had entered he actually looked at her. She was wearing a shirt that looked a lot like one of his; it fell to mid-thigh, and was mostly undone. Underneath he could see various bits of black lace. Her hair was loose, and quite messy – the whole effect was screaming _fuck me_. He blinked, and recovered enough brain power to answer her.

“Well… there are a lot of ways to say _fuck_ in Old Norse.”

“You’ll have to teach me. But before that I was hoping you would do more than _say_ it.” He couldn’t reply, because she was unbuttoning the shirt, and watching was taking all of his concentration, and then he was out of bed in one movement and they were a tangle of arms and legs and tongues.

Perhaps it was for the best that he had only just come, because the urgency for completion had been taken away. He could focus solely on her; on the feel of her nipples under his tongue and the way her hair looked spread across the pillow and the way she rubbed her body against him and the noises she made as he stroked two fingers inside of her and the expression on her face as he brought her to orgasm, her muscles clamping down in a way that made his cock twitch with anticipation.

She kissed him desperately, afterwards, and it was a lot like a _thank you_ , and he felt a thrill of smug satisfaction, and then she was wrapping her hand around him and it was her turn to find out what noises _he_ would make. Before things could get near the point of no return, he stopped her gently.

“What do you want?” he asked, and it was beyond obvious but he was desperate to hear the confirmation from her mouth.

“You. Please. Please, fuck me, I need you –” and he cut her off with kisses, and knew that the memory of her voice saying those words was going to feature in every fantasy he was ever going to have from this point on.

She kept her eyes open, locked on his as he joined them, more slowly than he had ever gone before, and the thought occurred to him that he had never really known the meaning of the word _intimacy_ before this moment had come along to define it. She was smiling, smiling so much it was almost laughter, and, God, he hadn’t done this in a thousand years but he still knew with absolute certainty that it had never been like _this_.

Then she was kissing him and running her hands over his back and encouraging him to move, and he complied so willingly, because she felt fucking _perfect_ and he had almost forgotten how good doing this was.

He didn’t know how much time passed. He knew he would have lasted all night if that were how long it took to please her, but almost too soon she was making those wonderful moans and whimpers and drawing him so deep into her with her arms and legs wrapped around him, and then he could feel her muscles contracting again, around his cock this time, and he couldn’t help but follow her into oblivion.

They lay there entwined for some time, him trying not to put too much weight on her, and her apparently trying to sabotage his efforts by clinging onto him so tightly. There were kisses, slower now, and again he was sure it had never been quite like _this_ before.

“You were doing it again, you know,” she said, in a playful tone.

“Doing what?”

“Talking. Norse, I assume. When you – you know…” He blinked several times, and tried to remember, but it was all a bit hazy.

“Ah… That’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it…? Sorry.”

“I liked it. Depending, I suppose, on what you were saying.” He rolled off her and settled on his side behind her. The curve of her body fit exactly against him – he wrapped his free arm around her and stroked the skin of her stomach and nuzzled at her neck and she produced a selection of the most contented sounds he had ever heard.

“I doubt it made much sense. If I had to guess…” He spoke softly, right next to her ear, having noticed the reaction this had produced earlier – “ _fuck_ , yes, you’re so perfect, please, I’m going to – _fuck_ – I’m so close, darling, _yes_ …” She was shivering in his arms, back arching in a way that made him long to take her again – something his body was almost certainly incapable of right at the moment. “Is that acceptable?”

“That’s acceptable.” She giggled; he had never heard her giggle before. Did he make her happy? He would give anything… but wait: wasn’t that what love was? It was too terrifying to think about right now. The abyss was dark and the fall would be shattering; the heartbreak certain. But here and now the bed was warm and her body felt wonderful pressed against his. So instead of worrying he whispered, “Sleep,” and kissed her, and they slept.

 

~oOo~

 


	23. Chapter XXI: Rowena Ravenclaw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and comments, it's so lovely to hear your thoughts.

 

 

~oOo~

 

Albus Dumbledore had received a letter from Mrs Cole whilst spreading marmalade onto his morning toast, and he was still polishing off the remains of it when he arrived at the orphanage about sixty seconds later. No more than a minute after _that_ , he was standing in a thicket of trees at the bottom of Glastonbury Tor, which was barely a mile from his own breakfast table. Thank heavens he hadn’t had to travel like a muggle, or that little excursion would have taken half the day.

He could easily find Home Farm, but it seemed remarkably unlikely that Tom would have made it there yet. He drew his wand; pictured the boy in his mind. _Point me_.

The wand spun rapidly, pulling strongly as it did when the target was near. Excellent – he would probably be home before his second slice of toast was cold. He began to climb the slope he had scaled so many times as a younger man, and lamented the way it now made his knees protest and his breath come quickly. Was it coincidence that the boy had ended up in such a magical spot?

Tom had his back to him, leaning against the tower wall, gazing down over the fields below. Albus observed him for a moment while his heart rate returned to normal, but before he could announce himself something utterly remarkable happened.

The ground below the boy’s feet _opened up_. In nearly sixty years he had never seen anything like it. Tom was staring, wide-eyed, indicating that he was just as surprised – presumably had not meant to cause it, if indeed it _was_ caused by him.

A trapdoor had appeared in the floor, and his head was spinning with every myth and legend he had ever heard about this ancient place. Every reason he had visited so often, even choosing to live nearby. There was magic in the air now, strong and unfamiliar. Dark, perhaps, and he was beguiled; intrigued against the warning of his rational mind.

Tom’s hand reaching for the handle snapped him out of his trance. _Professor Dumbledore_ was required, so _Albus_ – and his second slice of toast – would have to wait.

“Good morning, Tom.” The boy looked up, startled, and scrambled to his feet.

“P-professor Dumbledore,” he said, in the polite manner he adopted with all the teachers at Hogwarts. The manner that had everyone saying, O _h, that lovely boy Tom. Such talent._ As if they didn’t remember that he was capable of slashing several of his housemates half to death. Albus remembered.

“What a lovely morning it is. I, myself, was just out for a stroll – how curious that we should bump into each other.” Tom was not the only one who could fake a conversation to foster a public image. Like him, Tom didn’t fall for it, though he made a good attempt to hide his irritation.

“Yes, Professor. _Curious_ indeed.. _._ How is Mrs Cole this morning?” He chuckled, and thought of how in some respects he quite liked this strange child, and of the terrifying ways in which he resembled someone else he had once known.

“Mrs Cole? Oh, quite well, I hope. Though I should think the idea of one of her young charges so very far from home would give her cause for concern.”

“I don’t have a home.” He regarded the boy for some time.

“I understand, of course, that you don’t like to go back there. But I’m afraid that, until you’re older, there’s no choice.”

“You understand? You understand what it’s like to grow up _abandoned_ in that horrid place? You understand what it’s like to be beaten and tormented by people jealous because _you’re better than them_ , because you have magic? You understand what it’s like when everyone else has a family, and _money_ , and that’s apparently the only thing that matters even though they can’t tell one end of their wand from the other? _You understand_.” His voice rose and rose until the last two words, which were spat out with a cold venom one would not generally expect from one so young. And Albus could not find the right reply – the reply suitable for a teacher to make – because all he could think was _yes, yes I do._ And that was something he was never going to share with anyone, let alone a thirteen year old. So he looked away, feigning nonchalance, and changed the subject.

 “Why did you come here?” When Tom spoke again, it was back to the polite boy, as if the previous outburst had never happened.

“I need to find my friend, Professor.” That was the only obvious explanation, of course, and the one that Mrs Cole had volunteered. There was no lie on Tom’s face, though he was sometimes uneasy that he might not be able to discern one.

“A noble venture, I’m sure. But your place is in London, and hers is here, for the moment at least. I must insist that you return.” Tom’s eyes flicked to the ground and back again; he seemed to assess his options.

“I’m not going.”

“I’m –” but he didn’t get to finish his sentence, because the boy had wrenched open the trapdoor with surprising strength, and with the agility of youth disappeared rapidly from sight.

He was caught off-guard, too slow to use magic to stop him, and thereafter could not decide the appropriate course of action without knowing the destination of the tunnel. The place was oozing magic quite ominously; it would be foolish to rush straight in without casting hundreds of diagnostic spells.

And yet he was an adult – a teacher – and there was a child who could be in danger, and put like that there was no obvious alternative but to follow, and he wished that he could say that Tom’s safety was his major draw for going, but it really wasn’t.

He hated the small space, and the way the light from above receded into damp darkness, and he hated the fact that he was going into the unknown without a plan and he hated that he was still nothing more than the boy he had once been, who would chase knowledge to the point of apathy for his safety or the safety of others. And he hated that he was getting a bit old for this sort of adventure – especially before breakfast.

After what felt like a small age, low light began to filter into his vision again, and then the ladder was leading him down into a sort of cave where Tom Riddle was stood, staring. Thankfully alone, and visibly unharmed.

Against the opposite wall, a great stone sarcophagus dominated the space. Indeed, the only other object in the room was a wide basin of water embedded in the floor – an odd thing to find in a tomb, perhaps, but then nothing about this was normal. They both advanced on the grave, their previous conversation temporarily forgotten.

There was no plaque or decoration; merely one line of text hewn roughly into the lid.

_novissima autem inimica destruetur Mors_

 

~oOo~

 

When Hermione awoke the morning light was already filtering in strongly around the heavy curtains, and it took her several seconds to remember where she was. Then she smiled to herself, and finally noticed that she was not feeling sad or anxious. It was strange – perhaps even a touch unsettling. Behind her, Zorion’s breathing was slow and even. She decided to take the opportunity to clean up and slipped out to the adjoining bathroom.

He was awake when she returned, looking worried, though that expression dissipated upon seeing her. She was still naked and expected to feel exposed under his gaze, but didn’t.

“I thought you’d gone,” he said, and it was the kind of thing he usually said as a joke – maybe he had meant to say it as a joke – but it came across more like _don’t leave me_ , and what she wanted to say was _I won’t ever_ , but it came out as, “I’m right here.”

She climbed back into bed, and it was so novel and yet so nice to have someone there to hold her and kiss her – the kind of thing she had only read about or seen in films. After some time, she decided to ask something she’d been a bit preoccupied to ask last night.

“Did you grow up speaking Norse? Only, Zorion doesn’t seem like a very Norse name.” There was an almighty pause, and she might have thought he had dozed off if it were not for the absolute rigidity of his arms around her. Perhaps this was one of those topics she was not supposed to have asked about, but it seemed harmless to her.

“At home we spoke in English, though it was quite different back then. My father was English. But they spoke Norse in the village.”

“Which village?”

“Here. Kelling. It was controlled by the Vikings at the time. As was everything between Yorkshire and London.” She wondered idly why that piece of history had mostly passed her by.

“Of course… That doesn’t explain the name, though.” There was another long pause, and she got the disconcerting feeling that he was trying to decide how much of the truth to tell.

“My mother named me,” he said eventually. “She was Basque.”

“Oh – I wouldn’t have guessed that. You’re full of surprises.” The train of thought was brought to a sudden halt by the movement of his fingertips over her breasts; she gasped in unexpected pleasure and arched against him.

“Mmm… Do that again…” He chuckled, and complied, and she moaned and felt him hardening against her lower back. Then she was rolling to face him and their kisses were hungry and she stroked him eagerly.

She had touched Viktor once, like this, but that was a lifetime ago, and last night was a bit of a blur. Here in the morning, it seemed awkward, and she didn’t much like the idea of being bad at _this_ of all things.

“Show me,” she said, and then his much larger hand was closing around hers and guiding her movements and she would have never imagined how that would feel so intimate; just like she wouldn’t have imagined enjoying watching him touch himself yesterday. She had thought that sharing a tent with two boys for several months was enough to ruin _that_ particular act forever.

“Yes… yes, like that, _oh_ … darling, that’s _too_ good…” And then he pushed her hand away, breathing heavily, and held her tightly. When he spoke again it was quiet, muffled by her shoulder.

“Do you want me?” Somehow she got the feeling that the question was not intended purely with reference to this particular morning, and she wondered if she would ever understand the way he would go from confident to insecure in so few seconds. Instead of answering, she guided him to her entrance.

This time there was no discomfort, though perhaps she was going to be a bit sore later. But for now there was no need to think about anything except his desperate kisses, such a contrast to the languid rhythm of his cock stroking in and out of her, and the way that when he broke the kiss and pulled back slightly he was looking at her as if she were the most perfect thing in the world.

It wasn’t long before she was close, and his thrusts sped up, and then someone was saying _Zorion_ and _yes_ and _oh_ several times in no particular order – and it must have been _her_ , but she couldn’t really tell, because the orgasm had taken over her brain. It took him a few more thrusts to join her, giving her the chance to watch his face contort with pleasure as he gripped her hips tightly, and there was no talking this time, but just the tiniest sound that was almost a whimper. And then he collapsed down onto her and buried his face in her neck and she wrapped her arms around him and felt their heartbeats hammering together.

Not being at the peak of her mental capacity, it took her some while to notice that her shoulder was getting damp.

“Zorion?” Nothing. “Zorion? Are you okay?... I wasn’t _that_ bad, was I?” There was a choked sort of sound that might have been an attempt at a laugh, and she was so _confused_ , because hadn’t they been having a good time? Hadn’t she woken up, not an hour ago, thinking that for the first time in years she was content? He was standing up, now, with his face turned away, and striding to the bathroom. Halfway through the door he stopped and, without turning around, said simply,

“I’m… sorry.” And then the door was closing behind him and the room felt cold and empty and much too quiet.

“Zorion? I…“ she trailed off, because he probably couldn’t even hear through the door. And then, after several minutes had passed, and the silence and the sadness was too much,

“I don’t understand. _Please._ I don’t _understand_.”

 

~oOo~

 

He closed the door; slid down it, shaking, and felt the hysteria overcome him even as he tried to calm down. This was ridiculous – weak – stupid – _terrifying_. This was not like him! He didn’t cry, he didn’t have breakdowns, and especially not at such an embarrassingly inappropriate time as _right after sex_. Good sex, too. Great sex. In a way, that was part of the problem.

He was in love.

Oh, it was undeniable, and it had smashed into him like a bludger. He had probably been in love for some time. Time in which he had told himself he was still loyal to another (he wasn’t) or that it was just about her body (it wasn’t) or that she was not right for him (she really _was_ ).

He was utterly in love with her, and she didn’t even know his name.

She looked at him so tenderly. _At_ him, but not at _him_ , as it were; at an effigy he had created for a set of reasons he could barely remember but now he was stuck with it, stuck with a name and a face not his own.

He knew he had been lonely. His younger self wasn’t – or rather, hadn’t much noticed – but _he_ was. Lonely enough that he had turned to Hermione the way a plant turns to the sunlight, but he was sure – _so sure_ – that these feelings were more than could be attributed to that. Sure that this love was built on a foundation of respect, and fondness, and his appreciation of hundreds of her wonderful qualities. He had seen her face, and her body, and they were beautiful – but he had also held her very soul in his hands. Before he had even known her. Held it and wondered at it and known it was special.

He had never been one for introspection, but now the floodgate had opened it was dredging up things that had been buried far longer than the usual human being had cause to keep things bottled up, and he was _sobbing_ – pitifully – childlike.

“I don’t understand. _Please._ I don’t _understand_.”

Her voice, anguished, filtered through the gaps around the edges of the door, into his ears and then down deep inside him until he was consumed not only by his own misery but hers too. A lead weight had settled in his chest; though he wished to comfort her, he had no idea how, or how to fix himself. He just needed to _think_ – there must be a way out of this nightmare, must be a way for him to pull himself together and make her happy, but the pressure was crushing.

There on the cold, tiled floor, he finally felt the suffocating regret of a hundred terrible decisions – ancient though they now were – and he wept for them.

He wept for the hurt he had caused, to friends and enemies alike – to lovers – to others unknown.

He wept for the legacy he had created, and for the fact that it was fated to be the thing that would destroy him.

He wept for the child he had once been, left to roam, naïve and wild and powerful; he wept for the man he had become, too absorbed in his own plans and achievements to care about others; he wept for himself, here and now, and the cruelty of a universe that had provided a millennium for solitary repentance only to deal a final punishment in place of absolution.

He wept for the cast-iron knowledge that everything was his fault and his alone, and for Hermione who was conversely blameless.

That brought him back to the start of the cycle of grief, and it began again on horrendous repeat. He saw in his mind her beautiful face, smiling and sincere as he took her innocence – _please, fuck me_ – and thought of everything she believed about him and everything that was actually true, and saw her expression turn to shock and horror and her eyes grow cold, and even though that part was merely in his imagination the pain it caused in his chest was entirely real.

It was unclear how long he might have been stuck in that loop of misery, because at that moment there was a sort of siren sound in the house. He struggled to his feet; if the alarm wards were ringing then there must be a very good reason.

Hermione had already gone when he swept out of the bathroom a minute later, and the adrenaline sent round his body by the crying and the alarm still ringing did nothing to diminish the sense of abandonment. It felt like a rejection; like the beginning of the end.

He grabbed some clothes quickly, dislodging a card that had been resting on the nightstand.

_Rowena Ravenclaw (d. 999) was one of the four founders of Hogwarts School. Members of her House display wit and intelligence, which she was known to prize most highly. She is credited with the design of many aspects of Hogwarts castle, including the moving staircases._

The drawing of his old love glanced up at him, annoyed by the disturbance, and shuffled out of the frame.

 

~oOo~

 


	24. Chapter XXII: Salazar Slytherin (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's left a comment, and for the kudos :)

 

~oOo~

 

Morgana had loved being Death. It singled her out; proved how superior she was to everyone else, _as if there had ever been any doubt_. She derived a certain maniacal pleasure from every dreary soul she ruthlessly outlived. She had loved it all, and so for several centuries she had hoped that nobody would find the Grail.

When had it changed? There was no one particular moment, but simply the novelty of outliving everyone wore off. Nobody she had known in her original life was still alive, so the gloating opportunities were less satisfying. And, honestly, it turned out that dying was actually _quite good_.  What an irony.

Nevertheless, it was only about a year ago that she had decided to take an interest in her successor, and so she set to wandering. She was not going to rely on chance – oh no – not like the others. She was not going to be responsible for handing on such a prestigious role to someone like _Nero_. The very shame of it.

One could not journey far these days without coming across Merlin’s name. The quintessential travelling magician, they said; a master of enchantments and illusions. That sort of thing didn’t impress _her_ , but he was definitely powerful enough for the job nonetheless. What a coincidence that he had happened to be the first to find the trapdoor.

With hindsight, she had handled that situation terribly. A bit more subtlety – a bit more planning – and he might have been persuaded to drink. She had been flustered, and vowed to be better prepared next time.

The Elders would already know of Merlin’s refusal, of course. They’d be looking down proudly, and talking about how when he died he should be invited to a seat on the Council straight away. _Sickening_. Well, it might be impossible to make Merlin into Death now, but the rules said nothing about what _else_ she could use him for. And after much time spent sifting through Merlin’s memories she had devised a plan so elaborate, so perfect and so foolproof that it was going to make her last hours on Earth an utter _delight_. A trick to end all tricks! A lie to end all lies!

Merlin was powerful, yes, and magic loved him. It danced for him effortlessly – he was an artist, a poet, a philosopher at heart. And that was going to be his downfall: not because he was weak, but because his mind was untidy. A chaos of creativity and emotion, despite the best efforts of his mentor.

_Imperio._

It was the easiest thing in the world. That was the way her magic flowed – always had done. Not in showers of stars and butterflies or in control of the elements of nature or in violence of the physical variety. No, she was above those petty displays. Her power was far more dangerous, and more subtle, than that: control over people themselves, over free will and independence and whatever it was that makes one person different to another.

Merlin barely even put up a fight, for her will was a thousand times greater: they disapparated, and reappeared outside the large oak door of a grey stone house. A fire burnt within despite the lateness of the hour. Merlin raised his hand obediently and knocked loudly, and she faded into invisibility. A wonderful benefit of being Death.

The man that answered the door was thin and fairly tall, with dark features and sharp eyes. She considered him in the way that one predator might assess another, and smiled cruelly. _Perfect_.

 “Merlin!” He was swaying ever so slightly: given that it was Midsummer and the dead of night, he had probably been drinking. Even better. “What brings you here at this hour?”

“Salazar… I need to talk to you.”

 

~oOo~

 

Zorion and his younger self were – unsurprisingly – of the same mind, and upon appearing in sight of the open trapdoor, both shifted back several minutes in time.

What an utterly bizarre culmination of circumstances it was that had brought the four of them here to this moment; an undoubtedly momentous event which had never occurred in his original timeline. Nobody had stumbled across this place in a thousand years; for a start, there was only a small window of opportunity around Midsummer to find the entrance.

Zorion wondered what, if anything, his younger self was planning to do, and he realised with unease that he would be playing no active part in it. Not only because he must not be seen – and if ever there was a moment when the Elders would be watching, it was now – but also for the less tangible reason that the two of them had grown apart. He was not understood; not entirely trusted. When he had first appeared on his own doorstep almost two years ago, they had been obviously the same person. He remembered the familiarity that had followed his demonstration of the raven Patronus. But over time, whether by being at home all day, or by interaction with Hermione, or by his change in appearance, they had become distanced.

Handing over control, even, essentially, to _himself_ , did not come naturally to him, but by the chain of events he had set in motion it had become inevitable. Instead of the protagonist he became the patient observer, and took the opportunity for a foray into the heads of Dumbledore and the Riddle boy.

Fascinating thing, the mind. Fascinating how one person’s could be so ordered and indexed, and another’s so scattered, even when both were equally intelligent. He liked Albus Dumbledore a lot – always had done, mostly because he reminded him of Merlin – but, like his old friend, the man had a brain like an abstract painting. All emotion. A miracle he could ever remember anything.

Tom Riddle, on the other hand… Tom he could much more easily relate to. Facts and conversations and conclusions neatly compartmentalised and under control. A far more clinical perspective – every interaction viewed through the prism of its ultimate usefulness – and it made him uneasy with the recollection of his own past personality.

When the boy began to descend the ladder, he apparated silently into the chamber to wait. He had always hated it down here; at first it was merely because it reminded him of what a stupid lie he’d fallen for, but latterly it was that it reminded him of the fact that he had essentially _chosen_ to become Death.

They examined the tomb, of course – what else was there to do? Tom, he presumed, would not be able to translate the text he had left there, but Dumbledore would. He wondered if the man would understand his rather lame attempt at humour, but came to the conclusion that it probably required knowledge of the casket’s inhabitant (and her erstwhile occupation) to convey any meaning beyond the obvious.

Dumbledore began to cast a variety of diagnostics, which was sensible enough, but there was actually no need. He hadn’t bothered to protect _her_ body with anything nasty. In fact, he hadn’t even put a sticking charm on the lid – a fact that became evident when the boy levitated it several feet with a flick of his wrist. He smirked to himself, seeing Albus wrestle between his curiosity and the need to find a suitable reprimand. Wasn’t his younger self going to intervene? Interesting.

The body of Morgana was preserved, just as he had left it, and the sight of it sent him hurtling back a thousand years so violently that he was almost sick. Her hands, folded across her chest, clutched the Grail tightly. He wished he had never set eyes on it.

“That’s Morgana,” said Tom, and Zorion had no idea how he knew, and apparently neither did Dumbledore, whose expression was rather surprised.

“Yes… Yes, so it would seem.”

“Then that’s the Holy Grail.” And before anything else could be said, the boy had prised the cup from the dead woman’s hands.

 

~oOo~

 

Hermione was in a very bad mood. Not only had Zorion left her without an explanation – which was getting seriously old – but then the siren had started. She ran down the corridor to her own room in a bit of a panic, fearing being discovered in his bed by an elf or worse, but by the time she had got dressed the house was empty. She couldn’t even find Nifty.

The bloody noise wouldn’t shut up, and since it was evidently an alarm ward keyed to the caster she had no hope of silencing it. Even worse, she had no idea what was going on; the only course of action was to get outside and stay alert.

There was blatantly no danger. That was the most maddening thing. She had been sat out in the paddock for a bloody _hour_ , and she was starving, and had a giant headache. It was getting hot in the sun, so she wandered off into the woodland. Zorion could bloody well come and find her when he wanted to do some explaining.

After walking for a few minutes, she began to hear a soft whining sort of sound, and followed it curiously. A path branched off the main track, overgrown, and she stepped cautiously among the brambles and nettles. After a short distance it opened out into a clearing where a rough wooden structure had been erected as a shelter, and it was beneath this from which the noise was emanating. Up close, it seemed more agitated than it had from a distance.

There was a thestral lying on the floor, and as she looked around she noticed the rest of the herd gathered amongst the trees. One stepped forward – it was the largest, a male, and she wondered if she was intruding. She bowed hastily, even though that was for hippogriffs, but he _was_ very large and it couldn’t hurt to be polite. The creature continued to advance, but its body language seemed peaceful, so she resisted the urge to back away. When they were almost nose-to-nose, it appeared to look her up and down. Then it snorted and gestured mournfully with its head to the animal on the floor. The plea was startlingly clear; a cry for help.

Her heart rate accelerated wildly. She didn’t know anything, really, about thestrals – about _animals_ – she was no vet. And yet there was a poor creature in distress and nobody else around. She advanced slowly, noticing the moss and leaves which had been piled inside the shelter, and for some odd reason a collection of quaffles.

Now that she was stood right beside it, the problem was obvious: the thestral mare was in labour. A tiny pair of hooves had emerged, but no more, and the mother’s breathing was weak. She had no idea what to do, so she began talking in what she hoped was a soothing sort of way.

Pulling on the hooves seemed like a bad idea, though she couldn’t say precisely why. Were there spells for this? If there were, they didn’t teach them at Hogwarts. She had no spell, and no knowledge, and felt terrified and helpless. _Magic is intent._ She laid her hands on the mare and the mare quieted a little. _Magic is intent._ She closed her eyes. _Magic is intent_.

With her eyes closed, she felt more in tune with her magic, and she could also sense the thestral’s power in shining strands beneath her fingers. It felt… not dark, precisely, but deep – like a lake, perhaps. _Magic is intent_. She allowed her magic to bleed into the creature, as if that alone could right the foal. _Magic is intent_. The mare struggled and whined. _Magic is intent._ She was sweating and shivering from the concentration, in a sort of trance, because how could she be concentrating when she didn’t know what she was concentrating _on_?

The mare screamed, and it was the most horrific sound she had ever heard, making her jerk away with a cry of her own, but when she opened her eyes the foal was lying on the moss-covered earth. She shuffled over beside it.

It was definitely dead.

A tiny creature, even more skeletal than its mother –  all angles and long legs with a small rounded beak and little blunted horns and thin, filmy wings. Not the kind of baby animal that would make it into children’s books, but she thought it oddly beautiful. How terribly, dreadfully cruel that it was still and quiet and _dead_. The mother turned to nuzzle the baby with her beak, called to it, and then the tears were streaming down her face.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, I’m _sorry_ ,” she was sobbing, partly because she couldn’t help it and partly because it really seemed like the creatures were intelligent enough to understand. Hand shaking, she withdrew a handkerchief from her pocket and transfigured it into a soft blanket, tucked it around the foal’s limp body and lifted it gently. It was surprisingly solid in her arms; warm. She settled it in next to the mother and laid a hand on each of them in sorrow.

This time the strands of magic jumped and fused instantly, without her meaning to do it. She felt an almighty shock, like electricity, and was pushed over backwards with the force of it.

While she struggled to regain a sitting position, the rest of the herd was advancing and making whinnying noises, and then she looked up at the foal and _it was looking at her_. Staring with its sleepy, lamp-like eyes, and beginning to lift its regal head. _Magic is intent._ The mother made a cry of joy, and though Hermione had never heard a creature produce such a sound before she knew she would never ever forget it. And she laughed, because it was _magic_ , real _magic_.

She rubbed the tiny creature gently with the blanket before sliding it free, and its midnight skin was soft and smooth and so beautifully _brand new_. Then before long it was trying to stand on its impossibly wobbly legs, and the mare rose too.

Before Hermione could get to her feet, she felt the curved underside of the mare’s beak against the top of her head. The slightest tap, then gone, but again the message was unmistakable: _thank you._

A series of snorts and whinnies behind her made her turn around, and then her mouth dropped open because it was _Zorion_ who was making them, apparently in conversation with the large male thestral she had met earlier. And barely minutes ago she had had a hundred barbed comments ready to hurl at him the next time she saw him, but now they were the furthest thing from her mind.

When he turned to address her, it was with a shy nervousness she had never seen before.

“Polaris tells me you saved the foal – his son, actually… He would have me express his gratitude, but it’s hard to translate exactly what he said into English… Fascinating creatures, thestrals, very subtle language...Um… I’ve been looking for you everywhere…” She was still stunned into silence, and then wondered if she ought to acknowledge Polaris, but he had gone over to inspect his offspring.

“Erm,” she began, stupidly, looking up at Zorion and wondering why she was still sitting on the floor. “Of course. No problem. Um, actually, I don’t have any idea what I did, I really can’t take any credit. Er… Hello, by the way. I was… I was quite angry at you, you know.” He had the grace to look contrite, at least. Opened his mouth and then shut it again.

“Yes.”

“ _Yes?_ ”

“Er… Yes… As in, _yes_ , that’s quite reasonable.” It was very difficult to stay angry at him, but she tried her best.

“Are you going to apologise?” He smiled affably – seemed to debate with himself.

“I thought you might be a bit bored with apologies. Perhaps you’d like me to make it up to you… another way.” She laughed.

“Perhaps I would. But first, I’ll be having an explanation. And you’d better have turned that bloody alarm off.” He nodded, and held out his hand to help her up, and she realised with a jolt that she didn’t even much care about the prior events of the morning so long as they could be together now.

The thestrals were now all gathered around the new arrival, so they backed quietly out of the clearing and headed back towards the house.

“I don’t suppose it’s lunchtime, is it? I’m starving.”

“Oh, of course you must be… me too, actually. Um. I’ll go and find something and –” he looked across at her, slightly worriedly, as if he were aware that he was about to say something stupid – “um, you might want to get changed.” She looked down, and he was massively correct; she was covered in grass stains, bits of moss and… baby thestral, well, _slime_ , for lack of a more technical word. Thank heavens for magic, or that dress would be beyond ruined.

“Ah. Yep. Yes. You may have a point. I’ll… I’ll meet you back here?” They had arrived in the courtyard. He agreed, and she made a beeline for the shower.

Why was she agonising over what to wear? It was vain, and she was taking ages, and he was probably waiting, but nothing she had bought last summer felt _right_. It was the shoes, maybe: nothing she had bought went with the ridiculous heels he had transfigured for her yesterday. And she could easily alter them, but she really quite liked the way he stared.

It was some time later when she finally made it downstairs, wearing a newly-transfigured dress of a style that was most definitely not in keeping with the era. Zorion was not in the courtyard, and after a moment of confusion she stepped through into the cherry garden.

A large chequered blanket had been spread on the lawn, and a wicker picnic basket stood open upon it. Zorion was reclined next to the basket, staring up at the cloudless sky. After a moment’s appraisal of the setting, she was thankful for the effort she had put into her apparel, because he had changed, too: a light-coloured linen suit and white shirt, the first few buttons undone. The effect was a noticeable increase in her pulse rate.

“This is nice,” she said, by way of announcing herself. He looked up and she had the satisfaction of watching him take in her appearance appreciatively. She sat down, kicking off her shoes gladly, and he began unpacking the picnic. There was a tension to his movements; he was waiting for her to speak first. She could never fathom why some of her questions made him so nervous.

“So,” she said, in between sandwiches, “You can tell me about the alarm first. Everyone disappeared.”

“Ah… yes,” he said, and looked guilty. “The elves have a safe place they go to. I used to be a bit… paranoid.”

“But, what, you thought I’d be fine on my own? Which I was, incidentally, since there was _nothing_ _wrong_ apart from the ear-splitting noise…”

“I’m sorry, there’s no excuse… I was… not myself this morning. You’d gone and I was in a rush and I wasn’t thinking.”

“Hmm. Anyway. What was the problem?” His pause was the kind where he was deciding how much to give away, and she hated it. “Don’t you dare. Tell me the whole truth, I’m not stupid.”

“No,” he said, wryly, “I don’t suppose that’s something you’ve ever been accused of… Actually, I was just wondering where to start. It is, after a fashion… an infinitely long story.” She narrowed her eyes.

“Well, _thanks to you,_ I have an _infinitely_ long time to listen to it.” He considered her expressionlessly, and there was a long silence.

“This morning, Tom Riddle and Albus Dumbledore discovered the tomb of Morgana.”

Of all the things she might have been expecting, the words _Tom_ and _Dumbledore_ and _Morgana_ were not even close to being considered, let alone in the same sentence.

“ _What?_ ”

 

~oOo~

 


	25. Chapter XXIII: Salazar Slytherin (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your comments and kudos. I just had to post this today, as it’s the day after the solstice and it was too good to miss. It was even a full moon last night, as it (very nearly) was on the solstice in 1940. I don’t know why, but that pleased me :) I’m afraid the pace of updates will be reverting to ~ weekly now, though, as I really can’t keep up writing at this speed! I suppose you could say that this chapter marks the end of “Part One” of this story, so I’d love to hear your opinions so far, even if you’ve never commented before. I can’t believe that I’ve already written something that’s longer than the first Harry Potter book! I’ve never written anything at all before, so I’m really grateful to those of you that have been offering support and encouragement. Right, enough from me now…

 

~oOo~

 

“Salazar… I need to talk to you.”

Merlin was ushered through the door and Morgana slipped in alongside him. The entrance porch opened onto a main hall with a large fireplace, and the men settled into carved wooden chairs in front of it. A house elf appeared with two wine glasses, and was waved away dismissively after setting them on a low table.

“Is something the matter?” Morgana paused for a moment in consideration of Merlin’s answer, and the passage of time added a certain gravity, she thought.

“I’ve never told anyone what I’m about to tell you.” Slytherin raised his eyebrows, and had the bearing of a man about to be told a particularly funny joke. He wasn’t taking it seriously yet, but she had the confidence that he _would_ fall for it.

“It’s not about Helga’s knickers again, is it? I don’t want to hear it….” Merlin’s boyish face went bright red, and Morgana rolled her eyes and resisted the urge to find out any more about that particular anecdote.

“No – _no_. It’s about the Holy Grail.” Slytherin, though his posture was already immaculate, sat up marginally straighter. When he spoke, the nonchalance of his tone was betrayed by the sharpness of his gaze.

“What about it?” She made Merlin remain silent for several beats, as if coming to a final decision whether to let the other man in on the secret.

“I know where it is, Salazar. I’ve been using it, for centuries, and I want you to join me.” Slytherin burst out laughing.

“Is this one of your bizarre jokes, or are you merely delirious?”

“Neither – I swear it… Galahad found it, and brought it back to King Arthur at Camelot. We all used it, but being the only one at court with magic I was tasked to conceal it from our enemy, the sorceress Morgana... It has been in my care ever since.” Slytherin made no move to interrupt such a ridiculous tale, and appeared to be assessing Merlin’s words for ulterior motive. Morgana couldn’t help but wonder at his conclusions, but didn’t want to risk legilimency while maintaining the Imperius curse.

“The Grail must be used regularly to maintain the effect,” continued Merlin. “We go every year at Midsummer, to the hiding place.”

“You wish me to believe that, though I knew you as a boy of barely ten summers, you are in fact… about five hundred?”

“I know it sounds absurd, but you don’t need to believe me. I can _prove_ it.” The older man was interested, thought Morgana, despite himself. He downed the remainder of his wine in one graceful motion.

“ _Please_ ,” he said, with exaggerated politeness, “ _Be my guest._ ”

“Certainly. I will apparate us to the hiding place.”

Morgana grasped the back of Merlin’s robe, and Merlin took Slytherin’s arm, and then the warmth of the hall was replaced by the cool damp of the Grail chamber. Slytherin’s jaw dropped momentarily before he recovered himself – wherever he had expected to arrive, it hadn’t been somewhere like this.

Merlin took the Grail to the water and filled it, and the older man received it but made no move to drink. She realised she was holding her breath, and released it.

“What will happen if I drink?” Asked Slytherin – he was suspicious, and reasonably so. She could think of only one way to answer that would avoid the need for further discussion, and it required all her willpower to suppress Merlin’s natural instinct.

“Avada Kedavra!” A flash of green, and she smirked in satisfaction. It wasn’t easy to convince someone to kill themselves, even under the Imperius curse – but Merlin was unquestionably dead.

It was the fastest trip to the Other Side she had ever made, and Merlin’s body had barely hit the ground before he was struggling upright again; there was a priceless expression on the other man’s face. She had been correct – her last moments on Earth _were_ a joy.

“Drink! Drink, and join us who can cheat Death as we please,” said Merlin.

There was an agonising moment where Morgana wondered if he would refuse the offer, but then he was raising the cup to his lips and draining the contents. There was a delicious rush of power filling the chamber, and then she emerged resplendent in front of her successor, who was trembling with the magical currents pouring into him. She remembered the feeling well. _Showtime._

“Salazar Slytherin! I am the guardian of the Holy Grail. Do you seek life everlasting?” He had stopped shaking, and was standing up straight and defiant.

“I do.”

“Then you must prove your worthiness.” And before he had a chance to respond, she clicked her fingers and sent a slicing hex in his direction.

He spun to the side in time that it landed as a glancing blow, but it still caught his arm enough to tear fabric and send blood coursing down. His expression hardened, and then there was a giant snake towering over her with fangs glistening. _How original_. She vanished it with ease, and then they were trading curses and shields with satisfying speed, the air sparking with magic and bright colours bouncing off the dull stone walls.

She was goading him, of course; she could have defeated him in an instant, but instead she lead him onwards, sending darker and darker curses, until he responded in kind – until he came to understand that this was a fight for _life_ , not merely for victory. On and on and on they went, and finally she spread her arms wide and said – slowly, carefully –

“ _Avad_ –”

“Avada Kedavra!”

She had time to laugh in delight as the green light sped straight towards her chest.

 

~oOo~

 

Given the swell of magic that had accompanied the appearance of the trapdoor, Tom had expected that holding the Grail would feel…. special. If his look of horror was anything to go by, so did Dumbledore. It was more than disappointing, then, when nothing at all happened. He might as well have been holding a goblet of pumpkin juice at Hogwarts. Dumbledore recovered himself, and seemed to think that his previous expression had gone unnoticed. With a wave of the old man’s hand, the cup sailed out of his grip and back into the sarcophagus and the lid shut with a horrendous grinding of stone on stone.

“I was under the impression that I had already warned you about stealing, Tom.” He blinked, and considered his options, and decided that submitting was the only practical choice.

“Yes, Professor. Sorry, Professor. It won’t happen again.” Dumbledore always seemed to stare at him for several seconds after he spoke politely. Tom smiled inwardly; it evidently threw him off guard.

“Mrs Cole will be wanting you back. I must advise you against going wandering again – I should be most… _displeased_.” Tom got the feeling that his Professor would actually be rather happy – _to find a reason to expel him_. But, since he didn’t want that to happen, he had little choice but to nod in agreement. “Your arm, if you please, Tom.”

Dumbledore gripped his arm firmly, and then there was a terrible squeezing sensation and he was stood in a darkened doorway just around the corner from the orphanage, trying to suppress the urge to be sick. Reading about apparition, apparently, was not similar to actually experiencing it; he concealed his unease with some difficulty, and then Dumbledore was motioning him out of the shadows and back to a summer of grey blankets and thin porridge.

 

~oOo~

 

“This morning, Tom Riddle and Albus Dumbledore discovered the tomb of Morgana.”

“ _What?_ ” He smiled, and reached unhurriedly for another sandwich, because it was quite fun to shock her and then observe her increasing impatience. Predictably, it was only several seconds before she broke.

“Why were Tom and Professor Dumbledore together? Where is it? Were they _looking_ for it? What’s in there?… Hang on. How do _you_ know about it?” And there – she had hit on the right question. She knew it, too. He had been right, then, this morning. The beginning of the end. There could be no more evasion now. Her eyes narrowed. “I want the whole truth this time.”

“Yes,” he said, quickly, “Yes. You’re going to get it, I promise.” He tried to convey all his sincerity in his expression, though even after all these years it was not something he found came naturally. He looked out over the cherry tree and the roses he had planted, and at the high garden wall that he had built with his own hands as if it were some kind of Herculean penance. Things he had done for her – for his love for her – in a way he had never done anything for anyone else. “I’m going to tell you, and then you’re going to understand why I wished to forget it. And shortly afterwards you will begin to despise me. But… I… Just so you know…. I regret all of it – all apart from the fact that it brought me to _you_.” She laid her small hand on his, and he wondered if that were the last time he would see her expression free from condemnation.

“Tell me.” He could no longer meet her gaze. The story was long, and embarking upon it was like walking to the gallows.

“Have you heard of the Holy Grail?” She obviously hadn’t expected the story to begin this way.

“Er – yes – of course. Even muggles have. I thought it was a myth.”

“Ah, yes… a myth. The most dangerous of realities. Unfortunately for me, the Holy Grail was a myth in much the same – _exactly the same_ – sense that the Hallows are a myth.” She digested this for a moment, appearing to concentrate hard.

“Oh… so you found it? What does Morgana have to do with – _oh_.” She was quick to join the dots.

“Yes… Morgana invented the Grail _myth_. I’d heard of it, of course, but technically I wasn’t the one who found it. I wasn’t even looking for it. Though, to be fair, neither was Merlin, when he stumbled on it…”

“ _Merlin_?” He chose to ignore her incredulous outburst.

“Merlin was too wise to drink from the Grail, of course. He could spot a trap – and a beautiful woman, offering eternal life? That’s got _trap_ written all over it. Ironic, in a way, that there actually _was_ eternal life.” He trailed off for a moment, lost in memory.

“Um. So where do you come into this?”

“What? Oh. Yes. Sorry.” There was no putting it off. He marshalled his thoughts. “Death isn’t allowed to force anyone to complete the task – they put that in the contract pretty early on, there was a bit of a to-do in the early years, but I digress – Morgana had to think of another plan… A way to ensure that a person of her choosing would drink from the Grail voluntarily…. Genius, really…

“Merlin showed up at the door. Midsummer night, actually, and I – I had been drinking. It was late. He said he wanted to speak to me. Of course, I let him in – he was my best friend. My only friend, really.”

“When was this?”

“The year? 999. Anyway, he told me this ridiculous story… It’s hazy to me now. But the gist of it was that he had been alive since the time of King Arthur. That he was kept young by the Holy Grail, and he had now decided to let me in on the secret.”

“But Merlin _was_ part of the court of King Arthur. That’s what all the history books say.” He chuckled darkly.

“A particularly ironic twist to the end of this tale, that Morgana’s fiction should be preserved so. We wizards aren’t very good at history, as it turns out – we tend to rely on stories passed down, so the modern version has it that Arthur lived in the tenth or eleventh century. Muggles get it right, of course, using their science. Arthur was born in the fifth century.” There was a big pause.

“Oh. Actually, that makes a lot more sense…” He could foresee an impending discussion on some minor point of medieval history, which he really wasn’t in the mood for, so he continued quickly.

“Well, I had known Merlin since he was a child, so it was hard to believe him, but I _trusted_ him... I think I told you once before: people will believe anything if you appear to have the ultimate proof… And that night – that night – Merlin had the _Ultimate_ proof. The Holy Grail.”

“Wait a minute. Why would Merlin be saying all this, if he was your friend?” He smiled for a moment, despite himself.

“Lovely chap, Merlin. Magic like you’ve never seen… No discipline over the mind, though. Unfortunately for me. I expect he was a joy to Imperius.” She gasped, and he felt his smile melt away again. “Yes – he was under the Imperius curse that night. Perhaps I would have noticed, if I hadn’t been drinking, or perhaps I wouldn’t have. Morgana did have an unnatural talent for it…

“Merlin took me to the chamber where the Grail was hidden. It is accessible just once a year, at Midsummer. I was intrigued, of course – who wouldn’t be? But I was still unsure. Something seemed odd. Then he suddenly turned his wand on himself.”

“Merlin killed himself?” He nodded.

“The killing curse. He fell to the floor, but before I could even go to him he was rising again.”

“Morgana sent him back.”

“Yes… yes, as I understood later. A simple trick.”

“So you believed him unable to die… and you wanted that too.” There was a big pause.

“Yes… though it is painful now to admit it. How infinitely foolish of me. But I was no longer young; I did not subscribe to religion; I feared death, I suppose. A mistake I was by no means the first or last to make.”

A slight breeze whispered into the garden, rustling the leaves of the cherry tree and throwing some tendrils of hair across Hermione’s face. Yesterday, he would have brushed them back tenderly, but today he forced himself to refrain. _The beginning of the end._

“Since it was midsummer yesterday, I assume that Tom and Professor Dumbledore discovered the Grail chamber… but earlier you referred to it as Morgana’s tomb.” Like an avalanche accelerating down a mountainside, the tale was inching closer to its disastrous conclusion.

“Yes… She appeared, after I drank from the cup… I was entranced. She said… that she was the guardian of the Grail, and I had to prove myself worthy of its powers. She attacked me…” He swallowed hard and pressed on, resolutely.

“I killed her. There you have it. _I killed her_. I was stupid and drunk and provoked and _I killed her_ so that I might live forever.”

She was staring, somewhere between shock and horror, and he pressed on before she could voice her condemnation. _The beginning of the end._

“I buried her there in the chamber, and sealed it with blood wards, and nobody ever opened it… until this morning.”

He waited in sorrow for her to join the final, inevitable dots.

“But a blood ward could only be broken by a relative of yours. Tom, or Professor Dumbledore…?” He could not bring himself to answer, and she continued on as if she had not been expecting him to. “Everyone in this story – Morgana… Merlin… even Pythagoras and Nero – was… _famous_ ….” Her eyes snapped up to his, her voice flat. “Zorion isn’t your real name, is it?”

Her expression was uncharacteristically guarded; she was readying herself for disappointment, and if only he did not have to give it to her. _The beginning of the end._ He took a deep breath – felt the rush of nervous terror flood into every cell of his body – and handed her the card he had pocketed in trepidation earlier. It was torn viciously down the centre.

_Salazar Slytherin (c. 10 th century) was one of the four founders of Hogwarts. A Parselmouth, his house emblem is a snake and he selected students who showed ambition and cunning. Slytherin left the school after a dispute over the teaching of muggle-born students._

 

~oOo~


	26. Chapter XXIV: Cliodna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glastonbury Festival weekend! It’s crazy here in Somerset, because suddenly a city the size of Northampton (or Tallahassee, to use an American point of reference) descends on a handful of fields, and they all seem to arrive at once. Hilarious chaos. Happy weekend, everyone, and thanks as usual to those of you that commented and.. kudos'ed.. hmm, is that a word? It is now.

 

~oOo~

 

A long time went by as she stared at the card, desperate to disbelieve even despite the fact that she had suspected the answer some minutes previously.

It changed nothing, and yet, everything.

He had been right – she did understand why he had wished to forget it. She almost wished to forget it herself, though she should probably be more appreciative of his final honesty, at least. Yes. That would be a good place to start. He was watching her face in anxious sadness.

“Thank you… for telling me.”

The tension in the air between them combined with the heat of the day was making her feel suffocated and sick, her mind grinding along too slowly to work out what more to say. The image of Zorion – whom she had liked and trusted enough to do all the things they had done last night – was not reconciling with the man on the card; with people like Crabbe and Goyle, and a fifty-foot basilisk, and manor houses and dress robes all green and silver and _MUDBLOOD_ carved into flesh.

“I- I think I just need a minute,” she said, and dashed out of the garden.

It was impossible to get away enough to clear her head – it was _his_ house, _his_ garden – and everywhere she turned there were memories. It was, in fact, the first time she really noticed just how many new memories she had made. That in itself was painful as it reminded her of how far distant the old life had become.

She ended up in the thestrals’ clearing almost by accident, wandering absently as far from the house as possible. Polaris was stood as if on guard over mother and baby, and greeted her with a lowering of the head which she returned. The rest of the herd must have been off somewhere else now that the drama of the morning had passed.

It should have felt like she was intruding on some sort of private moment, but it didn’t – in fact Polaris wandered away as if he had been waiting for her to relieve him of the watch. She sat herself on the ground at the edge of the shelter, and the mother stirred enough to acknowledge her but was evidently not worried by her presence. The minutes passed, and the peace helped to stem the barrage of emotion flooding through her brain.

“I’m so confused,” she said, eventually, as if there were someone to talk to. The baby opened its eyes curiously before promptly going back to sleep. She continued on as if it were listening, and would have wise advice to offer.

“How can it be _him_? He would wish to kill me for what I am… his snake _did_ nearly kill me. Does he realise? Does he think that those things are too far in the past to matter? I ought to hate him, like he predicted, for what he has done and for the fact that I’m here at all… for what we did together. For the way he waited until _after_ we did it to tell me the truth… But I can’t seem to. Perhaps it will come, once it sinks in.

“How much regret does someone have to have, before they should be forgiven? How much time has to go by? I suppose a thousand years is enough, if he has changed, and yet he left that monster in the school, even after it killed Myrtle. It killed her, and who knows if there were others in the distant past? And he is directly a murderer too… Perhaps I have killed, by my actions, but I never _meant_ to…

“But he is kind to elves, and to you, too, I think, even though I can’t understand what you talked about. And he has been kind to me – the necklace, and the garden, and in talking and writing to me and teaching me magic. Surely there is no bad motive for those things. He has changed even in the last year, I’m sure of it. The confidence was almost arrogance, at first, but not now. I can only think that he really does care about me, though I don’t really understand why… I suppose he has been lonely, and that’s all it is.

“I was deliberately blind. That’s almost the worst part of it. He gave me enough warnings that he was hiding something! Perhaps he would always have told me if I’d asked. I _chose_ to give myself to him, despite those things, because I wanted it… and I always knew that he doesn’t really look that way. You all know the way he really looks, of course, don’t you? I suppose I’m nervous of it now. It’s not that I could only be with someone handsome, of course, but it’s going to be a shock, isn’t it? How old is he? I mean… I know that, actually, but how old does he _look_? Does it matter? I don’t know… But I know I can’t be with him again, the way he is now. It’s all such a mess. A lie. And I don’t know what to say to him. I can’t _face_ him.

“Will he send me away? I don’t _think_ so, and I suppose I can always find him if I’m willing to die, but nonetheless I’m… I’m scared. I’m scared to go on alone, without the only one who knows the secret. But one day I’ll have to, because after all that’s been the whole _point_ of this madness… though he hasn’t so much as _mentioned_ that all year… _oh_ … I’m so confused… I’m so _confused_.”

She lapsed into silence, and after several more minutes Polaris returned through the trees. Instead of standing guard he opted to lower himself down next to her. It was a friendly gesture, and when she reached out to pat his beak he leaned into her subtly.

“Thank you,” she said – and she didn’t know really what for. But as they sat there, and the stillness enveloped them companionably, there was a sense of belonging that she had not felt for almost two years.

 

~oOo~

 

Once Albus had reassured Mrs Cole that Tom was unlikely to run away again, he returned swiftly to the apparition spot and then to bottom of the Tor. His lungs protested the steep climb even more vehemently this time, but no matter. Armageddon itself would not dissuade him from returning to the tomb of Morgana. The greatest mystery in the British Isles, and it had been right on his doorstep all along! How on earth had the boy stumbled on what he had never managed to notice?

So much about the chamber was strange. Someone had been to great lengths in order to keep it concealed, but the grave itself was plain; unmarked, even. It would seem to indicate that it had been hidden for some reason other than respect. How old was it? Who had buried her? How had she died? Was that cup the Holy Grail – and if so, why was its keeper lying dead, and why had her burier not kept it for themselves? These were merely the questions he had formulated from one cursory visit, and he was sure there would be others in due course.

Perhaps the greatest question at the present time was whether he should tell anyone about the discovery, or keep it to himself. He imagined the knowledge to be safe with Tom, who was a secretive sort of child, and at any rate had nobody to speak to.

Something a bit like guilt went through him; he was all too familiar with it, though not in relation to Tom Riddle. For the first time, he wondered if leaving the boy in that lonely place was a mistake. Shouldn’t he have been encouraging his friendship with the muggle girl? Would it have hurt to see if he could stay on the farm with her? The thoughts petered out as he rounded the brow of the hill.

The trapdoor was not there. The hard earth floor, peppered sparsely with weeds, was exactly as it had previously been. His brow furrowed: what had the boy done to make it appear? He had just been standing about – pacing slightly, perhaps, but definitely not speaking or doing magic.

A figure stepped out of the shadows, black robed and hooded, and his already-elevated pulse began to hammer in fear… or excitement.

“Good morning,” said Death, casually.

 

~oOo~

 

_Dear Hermione,_

_You have been avoiding me, and I know that I deserve it. For all my many faults, both past and present, I hope that you can believe me when I say that it was never my particular intention to deceive you. In the beginning, I suppose I did not plan to tell you; I did not know you, after all, and I find it a rather painful subject as you have perhaps noticed. But as we grew closer I knew I must, and I should have had the courage to do it much sooner. Something you will almost certainly deride as a trait of my unfortunate House. It’s true that Godric was always braver than I – though often, maybe, reckless. I digress._

_Before I became Death, and for some time afterwards, I was arrogant and self-serving; distrusting of others and disinterested in their problems; I was dismissive toward anyone I thought beneath me, which was almost everyone – I abused the good nature of my friends, and cared only for knowledge and, so, power. These are faults which I have tried hard to address. But as you will inevitably think me an enemy of muggles and muggle-borns, I feel the need to defend myself at least somewhat._

_I wish to tell you a story in the desperate hope that one day you may come to forgive some of my previous faults. It concerns the founding of Hogwarts, which has not been well remembered by modern historians._

_Before Hogwarts, there was no school of magic in Britain or Ireland, though they have existed in Europe and Asia for some thousands of years. Wizards and witches here were largely self-taught – most did not use wands, or spells, but simply leant naturally to channel the magical currents. Some were healers, and stayed welcome in their own villages – some were travelling illusionists, making a living from entertainment – some were almost hermits. But the world was changing. The Christian church began to turn muggles against our kind, calling us Pagans and Devil-worshippers. Many communities turned on their healers, and no longer wished to watch magic tricks. Increasingly, we were becoming outcasts. Today’s society was born because those with magic began to seek each other out in a way that had never needed to happen before._

_I met Godric whilst riding on Exmoor in 962, and we became friends instantly. I had never met another wizard outside of my own family. We shared a desire to learn more about the nature of magic and the possible extent of our power; our natural affinities were so different that we learnt extensively from each other. And when after several months I expressed a desire to continue my travels, of course he would not hear of being left behind._

_It was Godric who befriended Helga first –though in his case, the term “befriended” was something of a euphemism – in a village somewhere in Pembrokeshire. He always was popular with women, though this time actually it was him who was more smitten than her. In those early days, I suppose I resented her a little, because of course it had been more fun travelling just the two of us alone. But I soon came to recognise her many strengths, though they were again so different to my own._

_At that time, Britain was divided by language as well as by culture and religion. The three of us were united by English, which was at that time still in its relative infancy. As you know, I also spoke Norse, while Godric knew the Gaelic of the western counties and Helga’s mother tongue was Welsh. Suddenly, we had an idea – we could form a school, in which each of us would instruct students who spoke Norse, or, Gaelic, or Welsh – but also teach them English. The idea grew and grew until we concluded that we would require someone who could speak Scots Gaelic and Irish Gaelic, and so our travels continued. We crossed to Ireland first._

_Cliodna was a witch of extraordinary natural talent, with a particular affinity for wind and water. While my strength lay mostly in the mind, and Godric’s on the battlefield, she was a master shapeshifter. An art I never could manage, try as I might._

_Unlike us, Cliodna did not wish to leave her home – largely because she was in love with a muggle man there. We delayed for months, trying to persuade her to travel to Scotland, until one night we were awoken by terrible screaming._

_Cliodna was murdered by her lover’s brother. He had seen her transform, and thought her an evil spirit. I swore that day that I would do anything in my power to protect other witches and wizards from the senseless violence that was being inflicted on us by those who did not understand our abilities. That was the first day that I thought our worlds would be better off separated._

_We gave Cliodna a sea burial, and could not stand the thought of replacing her with another. So we left Ireland later that same day._

_Once we had found Rowena, it felt natural to stay in Scotland, and the sparseness of the Highland population made it an obvious location for our school. It took the best part of a year to lay the enchantments, and another two to raise the first floor of the castle, and during this period each of us took time away to recruit our first students._

_The school today bears no resemblance to that time, of course. In our first year there were just nine pupils – the youngest, Merlin, was perhaps eleven, but the oldest might have been twenty. We taught in our own languages, and all together in English as we had planned. There was no concept of House, merely our own students – handpicked for no reason other than geography. I actually had two English speakers – one the son of my own brother – but also a Norse speaker from what is now Cambridge. None displayed much cunning or ambition, that I recall, though all became competent wizards._

_The years passed, and our vision was realised, but for the ever-widening influence of the Church and the increasing hostility of muggles. I became more and more nervous of selecting students from muggle families after a string of bad experiences. Perhaps I was unlucky, or perhaps my personality was less conducive to public relations, because I can admit now that the other three seemed to have less trouble._

_There were several contributing factors to my eventual departure, but only the most minor of them was my concern about the muggle-borns. Even then, it was the possible anger of their families that unsettled me, not any question of strength of power or purity of blood. That is a relatively modern political construct. It is not remembered now, perhaps conveniently, that the very first wizard was born to a muggle._

_If, after reading my explanation, you still think me an enemy of muggle-borns, then I am truly sorry. I can have nothing further to add regarding my actions of a millennium ago. Possibly it would help if I pointed out that I would not have sent you back to this time if I thought you intrinsically inferior to someone of magical heritage._

_As regards more personal matters, I meant every word I ever said to you. If you doubt anything else, please do not doubt that._

_I feel as if there is much more to say, but I am tired, and this letter is long, and perhaps you will begrudge me the time taken to read it. If you should ever desire to speak with me, I am here always._

_With a renewal of my most heartfelt regrets and apologies,_

_S._

Salazar put down his quill and flexed his cramping wrist. He had not thought so much about those events in centuries, and it all seemed terribly distant now. It was difficult to recall his own motivations, and painful to have it all dragged up again. He resisted the urge to go downstairs and find the firewhiskey and instead sealed up the envelope, deciding against including the frog card this time. She was almost certainly not in the mood for an attempt at light-heartedness.

_Cliodna (c. 10 th century) was an Irish witch principally remembered for discovering the properties of moondew. She was also an Animagus who could change into a seabird._

Of all the things _he_ remembered about Cliodna, the properties of moondew wouldn’t have made the top hundred. History was a cruel mistress indeed: lowering such a great witch to one afternoon’s accidental innovation. Raising him up into a figurehead for all prejudice.

 

~oOo~

 


	27. Chapter XXV: Felix Summerbee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and comments! Incidentally, if anyone has any questions about the pairings or anything else, I'll answer by PM but don't want to put spoilers in these notes in case other people would prefer not to know.

~oOo~

 

“Good morning,” said Death, casually. Albus, after a beat, recovered enough to pretend that this situation were a regular occurrence.

“Good morning,” he said. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” Death chuckled.

“No, I don’t believe we have. But I’ve been watching you, _Albus Dumbledore_.” This was admittedly one of the more disconcerting things he had ever been told, but he tried to stay calm and offer an attempt at a smile.

“A rather tedious hobby, I’m sure.”

“Oh, Albus… you underestimate yourself.” He had no reply for that; decided to change course.

“Forgive me, but to what do I owe this… pleasure?” Death laughed again, making him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

“A purely social call, I assure you – unless you’re feeling unwell?”

“Q-quite well, thank you.”

“Excellent. I’d hate to have to pass you over, especially during my tea break.”

Albus remembered silences longer, and tenser, and more awkward – but he couldn’t recall one so utterly bizarre. He had absolutely no idea what to say. Eventually Death spoke again, although it seemed to be more to himself than anything.

“Fascinating place, Morgana’s tomb. Accessible only for a short length of time around the midsummer solstice – not sure why she chose summer, actually; personally I would have preferred to make people trek up here in December.” He didn’t speak at first, because the list of questions in his mind was getting longer and he was desperately trying to make some sense out of it all.

“People have been inside before?”

“Pardon? Oh. Yes… Although not for some time.” Albus wondered how long _some time_ was, and wondered if he should try his luck with more questions, but Death didn’t seem to be paying attention. When he spoke again the tone had changed entirely and Albus got the sense that they had reached the real reason behind the visit.

“He has it, you know.” 

It took him only a second to deduce the ‘he’ and the ‘it’ in question, owing to the fact that neither thing was ever very far from his mind. He considered feigning confusion, but didn’t see any point.

“I suspected as much, yes.”

“It has been keeping me busier than I would like.” 

He wished this conversation wasn’t happening. He wished he was still at home, with the second slice of toast and the morning _Prophet_. He wished Gellert Grindelwald had never existed, or at least that he had never met him and could therefore not feel any guilt about recent events.

Perhaps because he was oblivious to his internal anguish, or perhaps in deference to it, Death continued speaking without waiting for a response.

“You’re the only one… that could stop him, I mean. What’s any government going to be able to do? He finds sympathisers among the powerful wherever he goes. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten several of his more charming qualities.”

Albus wasn’t in the habit of blushing, but he knew he was doing it now – probably violently enough to set up a terrible clash with his hair. Nobody except the two of them had ever known about the more… _personal_ … aspect of their relationship, and he was rather desperate to keep it that way.

“Relax, man… _That’s_ really not the part to be ashamed of, is it? Anyway, you understand my meaning.”

“Y-yes. Although – the new minister is a good man –”

“Trying to find an excuse, Albus? Tut, tut. Where’s that Gryffindor courage? No matter. You’ll come around in time. It would be a shame, after all, if that wand were to fall into the wrong hands again.”

Before he could open his mouth in protest Death had turned sharply as if to leave, cloak flaring around him dramatically. He took a step away but then turned back.

“Oh, and… Albus?” There was a pause, and he waited with increasing trepidation for the parting words. “Not that it makes any difference, but… it wasn’t you.”

 

~oOo~

 

When Death stepped silently over the threshold at 6pm, it took him approximately ten seconds of staring at his older self (sat at the long table, head in hands) to deduce several salient points.

Firstly, that he was completely gone on the Granger girl. Heavens above. He had been vaguely prepared to overlook what they had clearly done last night – while it was a pretty hideous betrayal of Rowena, it was not _his_ betrayal. And he couldn’t deny that the idea of getting laid was appealing… he had even fantasized about her himself, if he were brutally honest. But developing an emotion beyond lust? Unfathomable.

Secondly, judging by the dejectedness of his figure, she was not quite as interested as him. Since she didn’t seem the type to jump into bed with just anyone, he was left to conclude that some new information had since come to light. He could only guess in horror, given the events of the morning, at what exactly that information might be.

Thirdly, that if he – _Zorion_ , as he had reluctantly begun to refer to him, despite the comedy of it – was in love with her, there was no way he was as committed to passing over as he had once been.

There had been a moment, just after his conversation with Albus, when he had wondered if he was wrong to act behind the back of his older self. But coming home to these new conclusions simply reinforced what he had been thinking last night: at some point in the next half-century, he would finally lose it. He would go mad to a point where he would think that sending an eighteen-year-old girl sixty years back in time was the answer to uniting the Hallows.

Mental.

There was only one option, of course; he would have to gain his freedom quickly, before he became the idiot he was apparently going to turn into. Ordinarily he wouldn’t wish the fate on Dumbledore – who was increasingly reminding him of Merlin – but needs must. There was no denying that the man was perfect for the job. Already isolated, even. Sure, Tom Riddle would probably be fine too. But he was currently a boy of thirteen! That seemed like a lot of time to wait, and he had had enough of waiting.

He crossed into the sitting room, resisting the urge to start an argument with his older self on the basis that he would rather keep the knowledge of his relationship secret for the time being. Knowledge was power, after all, and that power might come in useful later. A whiskey and a chocolate frog were in order, in celebration of today’s events: the small stones he hoped would start the avalanche.

_Felix Summerbee (1447-1508) was an English wizard remembered for inventing the Cheering Charm to make himself feel better after his wife eloped with his brother. Unfortunately, the charm’s effects are only temporary._

Between them they must have eaten hundreds of frogs by now, so it was beginning to surprise him every time they found a new card – the manufacturers were sneaky, though, because a few seemed to outnumber the others by a long way. They had about thirty of Merlin. He went to put Summerbee in the correct alphabetical location on the wall, and did a double take when he saw his own illustration staring haughtily up at him.

The card was torn down the middle, and suddenly the events of the afternoon began to slide into place. _Shit_. His older self was even more of an idiot than he thought. _Think. Think._

Sitting down again, suddenly exhausted, he began to ponder the potential fallout. He didn’t remember a more momentous twenty-four hours since that midsummer night in 999 – there was a lot to think about. He was not a gambling man, and in his desperation to find a new Death he would be leaving nothing to chance.

 

~oOo~

 

Hermione sat at the desk in her bedroom, staring through the window into the garden although the light had faded hours ago. The house was quiet but for an occasional creak from the ancient timbers as they gave up the heat of the day; it was a quiet that still did not extend to the inside of her head.

A slight movement caught her eye, and turning her head she could just make out some parchment appearing through the small gap between the door and the floor. Despite the darkness, it was obvious what it was, and _who_ it therefore must be. Should she open the door? A part of her – a large part – wanted to go to him. To forget, to end this horrible afternoon and just go back to yesterday. It was cold in here now, sat, as she was, in a very thin nightdress, and his arms were so _warm_ , and so secure.

The letter lay fully on her side of the door now, and she imagined she heard a faint sigh crossing the metres (or was it miles, or perhaps years) between them, but still she did not move.

It was some time before she retrieved the envelope; hard to say whether that was out of a desire not to let him know she had been sat there all along, or purely from apprehension at the contents. She had a strange flashback to the letter containing her OWL results, which had sat on the kitchen table for almost an hour unopened. If only dropping an ‘O’ grade was all she had to worry about now.

She read the letter several times, because like everything that had come before it seemed to raise more questions than it answered. The academic in her – the part still capable of thought without emotional entanglement – was fascinated; how had so many things been missed out in the history books? Added to the revelations about Merlin earlier, and she was beginning to doubt just about everything she had ever read. It was an amazing opportunity to be able to talk to someone who was _really there_.

And yet… how could he write several feet of parchment about Hogwarts without mentioning the _fifty-foot basilisk_ he had put there? What was he planning on saying – that it was an accident? That it wasn’t him? He knew that she knew about it, didn’t he?

It had nearly bloody killed her.

It _had_ killed Myrtle. No, wait: it _did_ – no – it… _would_ kill Myrtle. Well, or rather, she would have to _stop_ it from killing Myrtle.

A bloody giant lethal basilisk. In a school, with children. What the bloody hell was he playing at?

But he cared for her. He had called her… beautiful. And what else? Brave… _Perfect_.

_I meant every word I ever said to you. If you doubt anything else, please do not doubt that._

Shit.

This was a mess. And it needed sorting out _now._

She narrowly resisted the urge to slam the bedroom door on the basis that waking the other members of the household was not in her best interests.

She entered his room – without knocking – and found him sat cross-legged on the bed, looking the picture of surprised innocence with a chocolate frog halfway to his mouth. His frame, all angles and long limbs, was covered only with pyjama trousers; the juvenile scene reminded her sharply of Ron or Harry, which completely took the wind out of her sails. They stared at each other for a while, and he put the frog down on the nightstand somewhat guiltily. It hopped off with enthusiasm, scattering a small stack of cards in its wake. Evidently this had been something of a late-night chocolate binge.

“Well, it’s better than whiskey, I suppose…” It was out of her mouth before she could stop herself, and that was maddening, because ten seconds ago she had been fired up to shout about the basilisk, and now the tone had been sort of _softened_. How did that happen every time she wanted to argue with him?

“Erm – yes – I mean… That’s what I thought.”

There was another substantial pause, in which she continued to fail to reconcile the figure in front of her with the green and silver caricature in her mind. It was draining, and she was already so tired.

“You came here to say something,” he deduced. She thought about it for a moment; couldn’t muster the energy. It would be so much easier to just forget.

“It… It doesn’t matter. Maybe in the morning. I’m not thinking properly.” His expression was unreadable – confused, perhaps, or surprised. It was becoming awkward, so she turned to go.

“Wait – wait. Um. Don’t leave.” There it was again – the same old insecurity. Well-founded, as it had turned out, but she remembered (had it really been only that same morning?) thinking _I won’t ever._ It seemed a foolish thought, now, but the emotion lingered on nevertheless.

“I don’t mean –”  he continued, embarrassed, “I don’t mean – I know you won’t want… _that_ … but… never mind.”

She was torn and confused and worn out, and it was her Zorion who was looking at her with those sad eyes. Zorion who she trusted, not… Salazar, who she did not know and could not trust. And before she could overanalyse it she was climbing into the empty side of the bed, and he was getting under the covers too and settling tentatively beside her as if she might run away at any sudden movement. So she pressed herself backwards into him and pulled his arm around her as it had been the night before.

It was the same warm comfort as it had been then. The same perfect fit. And as she drifted off she found herself forgetting the ways that things had since changed.

 

~oOo~

 

He couldn’t sleep.

In his arms she lay so peacefully, breathing evenly. He desperately wanted to turn over but didn’t dare disturb her, instead allowing his limbs to become uncomfortable and then painful and finally, completely numb.

She was there with him, but _not there_ ; that much was clear from the way she had held herself stiffly in the several minutes it had taken her to fall asleep. He felt stupid for asking her to stay, as if it could ever have fixed everything. He needed to back off and get control of himself.

Despite the growing distance between them, now that most of his secrets were divulged he felt better than he had done that morning. It was strange; in his original life, he couldn’t imagine himself taking any action that would decrease his chances of sleeping with someone half as attractive as Hermione. Yet that was exactly what he had done, possibly permanently – because he couldn’t stand to hide things from her, and because he had come to want so much more than her friendship or her body, and because for that to be possible she had to know the real him. It was a gamble, and he had never been one for gambling, but there seemed to be no alternative.

It wasn’t that easy to be patient now that he had been reminded just how good sex was. But he had waited centuries for one woman. He would just have to wait now – however long it might take.

She stretched slightly in her sleep and it had the effect of rubbing her body against him; he gritted his teeth and tried unsuccessfully to stop the blood rushing south. _Get a grip_. Why on earth had he put himself in such an impossible situation? His left hand – splayed over her stomach exactly where she had placed it perhaps an hour ago – itched to stroke her. Maybe he actually did, slightly, because she let out a breath that was oh-so-nearly a moan and he froze, terrified.

She was asleep, wasn’t she? She must be, because if she was awake she wouldn’t be – _fuck_ – wouldn’t be starting to grind her backside against his cock. The old version of himself wouldn’t have interrupted, but the new version knew he probably should.

“H-Hermione?”

“Mmm,” she said, still moving. He swallowed hard, and forced himself to continue speaking.

“Darling… are you awake?” There was a bit of a pause.

“Mm… yes, um, just. What happened?” She had stopped moving, now, and he was beginning to wish he hadn’t done the honest thing.

“Ah… um… nothing. Sorry.”

“You’re hard…” It was a statement he could only imagine her making while half-asleep.

“Y-yes. Sorry,” he said, again, and tried to shuffle his lower half away from her, but after the briefest of pauses she pressed back against him and a spike of adrenaline accelerated his heart into the back of his ribcage. For several seconds he kept perfectly still – didn’t even breathe. Then her fingers crept between them and closed around him through the fabric of his trousers, and he gulped in a frantic lungful of air.

“ _Fuck_ – oh – _please_ –” He didn’t know what he was asking for until her hand was sliding the fabric aside and then it was her smooth skin against his. He could no longer stop his own fingers rubbing circles over the material of her nightdress. When this had gone on for a little while, she surprised him again by using her free hand to guide his fingers lower and lower.

He was confused, of course: she had spent most of the day avoiding him, and had come to him an hour ago ready to argue about… something. But he loved her and he needed her and she was stroking him so eagerly and there was no way he was going to be able to convince himself to stop and ask the reason for the change of heart.

She was already wet when he began to touch her: “ _I was dreaming of you_ ,” she said, and it was like music to his ears.

“What was I doing?” he asked, though it was hard to talk evenly because her grip had tightened on his cock. In response he curled his fingers up inside her and laughed when she gasped and then whimpered.

“I – um – _that_ … and… more…”

“More?” He could almost hear the gears turning in her mind as she tried to form words while his fingers moved inside her and his lips brushed her shoulder, her neck, her earlobe.

“ _Please_ ,” was all she managed, and all he needed to hear when coupled with the way her hand moved to the waistband of his trousers. He shed them rapidly and then was pressed up behind her again, the nightdress pulled up to her waist now. “ _Please_ ,” she repeated.

The angle was awkward – for a second he felt fifteen again, but then he was buried inside her and she was moaning in satisfaction and the fear of ruining the moment was over.

At first he refused to move, teasing her – stroking her body with his free hand – but when he reached her breasts and ghosted his fingertips over her nipples she arched violently, burying him even deeper, and then he couldn’t resist any longer.

The darkness was almost complete, but he could still see himself disappearing into her body with every stroke; was transfixed by it, and by the curve of her back and the line of her neck as she held herself rigid, allowing him in as deeply as possible. She was perfect, and he told her so – though it took all his concentration to do so in English.

It was much too good – soon he would be incapable of slowing down again, so instead he brought his fingers to her clit and pressed down gently, then a little more firmly, until her moans became jagged cries and she shook around him, and then he was sliding inside her for the final time, hard, and feeling her tightening muscles elicit his own release.

Later, just as he was finally falling asleep, it occurred to him that he had had to wait rather less time for her than he had been imagining. If only it would last.

 

~oOo~


	28. Chapter XXVI: Babayaga

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for how long this took - there was no good excuse. Don't worry, I've no plans to abandon, though I probably wouldn't have made it this far without encouragement, so... thanks. Bear with me through this awkward transitional phase in the story.
> 
>  

 

~oOo~

 

The weeks rolled by at Wool's orphanage, each day inching slowly by with nothing much to distinguish it from the last. Tom was caged; by the high grey walls, by the atmosphere, by the monotony of the small rooms and the insipidness of their occupants – by the inside of his own mind. He was not allowed to wander, and whether this was upon Dumbledore's instruction or purely Mrs Cole's initiative, he didn't know. It didn't much matter anyway.

He was angry. Not white-hot angry, like that morning in the boys' dormitory, but something deeper and slower to burn. It was an old, familiar sort of anger that had often accompanied him growing up, born of being forever treated as if he didn't matter and looked down upon as if others would always be in possession of something he was not. He noticed in passing that it was something he had not felt strongly for some time, but was in no mood to contemplate why.

Confined to the orphanage with the youngest children, there was nothing to do but fan the flames of anger with thought.

_Dumbledore_. Always him, with his stupid smug expression. Thinking he knew everything about everything! He imagined with delight the day when he would be able to say the things he really wanted to say to him – the day the old man would no longer have any available sanctions that would deter him. He imagined, too, how over time others would realise how wrong they had been to dismiss him and deride him: all those purebloods would queue up to be associated with him when he proved his power. He imagined the way he might charm them, then, and string them along until they had given him everything. He imagined the contortion of Malfoy's father's face as he writhed under his wand, begging for forgiveness. He imagined what he would look like, dead – could you really see light leaving the eyes, like it said in books? He longed to find out.

Tom knew that he was intelligent, powerful, and charming if he wished it – he knew the meaning of work, and struggle, and starting out from the bottom. He read; he watched; he listened; he _observed_. He was thirteen-and-a-half, now. Getting tall. No longer a child, but soon a man they would not be able to sweep aside.

The more he went round in these thought circles, the more he realised that it was _people_ he hated. Not wizards, and not even muggles. Just, with very few potential exceptions, _all people_. All people were dull, stupid, lazy, and set in their ways. All people were self-serving, disliking anyone at all different to themselves. Muggles were prejudiced against having magic and wizards were prejudiced against _not_ having it; everyone was prejudiced against people with no money, no family and no connections. No matter. He was going to rise higher than all of them.

As a personality trait, Tom was not predisposed to patience. But he was also not predisposed to rash idiocy, so he knew that there was nothing to be done but accept the cage of the orphanage until September. Accept the (admittedly infinitely preferable) cage of Hogwarts for several more years. Learn and practice and observe and discover and bide his time. Because one day, his time _would_ come. And then they would all be sorry.

 

~oOo~

 

She meant to argue with him that first morning – and when that opportunity came and went, she thought perhaps after lunch. By the time that, too, had passed, she was beginning to wonder if she was ever going to bring it up, or if she even wanted to.

Two years ago, there would have been no question in her mind, she thought; she was practical, a problem-solver; not one to sweep anything under the rug rather than deal with it. But she had changed. Was it the night she had been hit by the killing curse? Perhaps later, collapsed on a flagstone floor after strangling Malfoy. Or maybe it was not until all those hours in the hospital wing, talking to and then dreaming of a man as old as ancient history and yet as human as herself. Maybe it was even somehow in the last two days, as if she had gone from a child to a woman in one action and was desperate not to look backwards. She was exhausted, that much was certain. Exhausted from thinking and feeling and caring too much.

When he held her, she could forget about everything for a little while. Was this why people drank? Or took drugs? Such things were outside of her experience, but she thought perhaps she could empathise all the same. The calm, the relaxation – the _oblivion_ – was addictive after so long on edge. And so the days and weeks passed, and the argument was left unsaid, and each night she found herself falling into _his_ bed instead of into hers. Still she refrained from calling him by any name, and she knew that he had noticed. Sometimes he would have a far-away sort of look, as if wondering whether to bring up the subject, but seemed to conclude that maintaining their awkward truce was preferable.

During the days she tried to keep busy, thinking that spending too much time with him was only going to break the peace. She spent time instead with the thestrals, and time with Nifty, and she visited Diagon Alley and muggle London and even some places she had never been before. She went to the cinema – where the newsreel told of the surrender of France, and she bought an ice cream for tuppence from the attendant that came round in the interval and felt like _she_ was living in a movie. She ate fish and chips from newspaper on Brighton beach and won a stick of rock from the amusement arcade on the pier, then gave it to a child who took it as if it were the Philosopher's Stone. She went shopping for clothes and books, and attended a tea dance at the Pavilion, and got given a rose by a boy named Frank who was on a week's leave from the barracks. She walked in the Lake District and on Dartmoor and in the Cairngorms.

In short, she lived. Lived for a brief time in an uncaring bubble while Operation Sea Lion was planned just across the Channel and Grindelwald dismantled the French Ministry and Tom Riddle dreamed of revenge.

Like all bubbles, it was only a matter of time before it burst.

It was a Tuesday in late August when she ventured into Diagon Alley to purchase her new school things – an odd venture, admittedly, for a woman appearing around eighteen, but one she got away with notwithstanding several odd looks. Afterwards she decided to apparate to Brighton for lunch, arriving in a secluded alleyway just off the seafront. Stepping onto the promenade, she took in the scene below and stopped dead.

The beach was deserted, barricaded off with coils of barbed wire. In approximately the spot she had been sat in several weeks previously, a large sign read DANGER: MINES in block lettering. It was the kind of scene she had only encountered in black and white photographs; seeing it for real, in all the colour of a fine summer's day, was overwhelmingly real. Somewhere out there in this time that was not her own, Hitler and Churchill still lived. People were building air-raid shelters and carrying ration books and kissing their sons goodbye. Sons like Frank – barely out of school – younger than her.

She couldn't stop any of it. Not only was it all wildly beyond the scope of a single person, time-traveller or not, but there was no telling what might be the unintended consequences. Not in terms of erasing herself – that would hardly be a loss, and at any rate it was likely impossible – but in terms of the future of… everything. She had that terrible, dangerous thing: a little knowledge. Enough to care, but not enough to understand, and so she was condemned to feel in some way responsible for a host of things effectively out of her control. And with that thought, all the worries she had been suppressing over the past weeks came rushing back.

After a few minutes of wallowing in self-pity staring out to sea, she finally came around to remembering all the things that _were_ in her control. The life of Myrtle, for instance, and Tom Riddle Senior – the lives of Lily and James Potter. The sanity of the Longbottoms and the happiness of the Weasleys… the happiness of her parents.

She had allowed herself to get lost in this time and forget her purpose – not the purpose _he_ had later declared, which was immaterial – but her constant purpose, the path she had been walking since she had first befriended Harry Potter. The purpose of making a better world, in which there was no Voldemort, and in which muggleborns and house elves and centaurs – and everyone else – would be treated with respect.

She turned sharply on her heel and traced her steps back to the apparition point: the holiday was over and the work was about to begin.

 

~oOo~

 

He raised his head from his book as he heard her footsteps approaching the courtyard, deliberate, slightly faster than normal, and knew immediately that this was going to be the moment. Perhaps something had happened while she was out – he didn't know, hadn't ever dared to follow – or perhaps she had simply decided that enough was enough. His heartbeat accelerated, belying his aching nervousness even as he arranged his features into an expression of calm interest.

"We need to talk," she said, predictably, with no preamble. He contemplated an attempt at levity but decided against it and instead merely indicated the adjacent chair. She sat down, warily, as if it were some kind of trick. There was a long pause in which she was evidently wishing he would speak first – he didn't.

"Tom Riddle is looking for the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets," is what she eventually opened with, and whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't quite that. He wondered where she was going with that line of enquiry, his face habitually blank as he thought. She narrowed her eyes.

"You _will_ tell me where it is. But firstly, you're going to explain to me why the _fuck_ you thought it was a good idea to put one of the most dangerous monsters known to wizardkind _in a school._ Furthermore, you're going to tell me why it's _still there_. You're going to tell me why you haven't killed it. Were you proud when it killed Myrtle?"

"No! I –"

"How many other children have you murdered, _Salazar_?"

She spat out the name as though the very sound of it was poisonous and he flinched involuntarily.

"You nearly killed my best friend, when he was _twelve_ , does that make you feel big? And –"

"SHE WAS THERE FOR PROTECTION!" He hadn't meant to shout – hadn't meant to lose control like that, but couldn't take those accusations, not from _her_ – was about to apologise – elaborate – but she was already shouting back at him.

"SHE? … _SHE?!_ WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?"

"Look, I'm sorry, please, calm down a minute and I'll explain –" She laughed humourlessly, but neglected to actually speak again, waiting for him. He swallowed hard and wondered where to start. The words, when they arrived, came out in a stilted rush.

"I've always – erm – _liked_ snakes –" he tried to ignore her snort of derision – "I suppose it's inevitable, you know, when they keep… chatting to you. We always had them in the house, you see… Not surprising that I always wanted to hatch a basilisk…"

"Not surprising? I'm sorry… it's apparently _not surprising_ that you wanted to create something that will kill you by just _looking at you?_ " He waited patiently for her to quiet.

"Well…I was curious… I thought it would make quite a unique pet. The stare's not dangerous, you know, until they're several years old –"

"Oh," she interrupted, voice laden with sarcasm, " _that's_ alright then." He pressed onwards.

"It was a project I began while the others were laying the castle's enchantments. They weren't really my area, I'm afraid, and I had perhaps too little faith. I argued that we needed a final defence, if the muggles made it past the perimeter. A basilisk was perfect; controllable, causes a clean death, and can distinguish friend from foe –"

"It. Has. Killed. Children." It was an undeniably, regrettably, almost perfectly accurate point. He gulped.

"Yes… well, just the one, actually, but – _I know, look, I know that's not the point_ – she was just doing as she was told!" Hermione stared at him, wide-eyed, for several seconds, and when she spoke again it was in a much quieter voice.

"And that makes it alright, does it?"

"No, of course not, but… it's Tom that killed Myrtle, isn't it, not… _her_."

"Under that logic," she said, coldly, "It was _you_ that killed her. And either way, the point is that people with murderous intentions are rather more dangerous if you _provide them with a basilisk._ "

He didn't know what to say. In truth, he had never thought all that much about any of it. Boudica had never been any trouble until Tom Riddle had come along – in fact, he had thought, until then, that she had probably died over the centuries down there. The death of Myrtle had therefore taken him by surprise. It was regrettable, of course, but the bottom line had been that Tom wasn't going to open the chamber again. And he had even bothered to keep watch on him, the last of his line – he had never had a child. No heir. He had thought the chamber was sealed forever.

He had not, at the time, been aware of Boudica's fate, given that it had not been accompanied by the demise of anyone requiring his professional attention. That news reached him more recently, via Hermione during one of their conversations in the Hospital Wing. And she had said herself how they had needed the fangs to destroy the horcruxes. He thought better of bringing that up now.

"I'm… sorry," was all he said, eventually.

"Don't be," she spat back. "It's not going to happen again because you're going to tell me where the entrance is, and then I'm going to do what you should have done a long time ago."

He hesitated for a moment and her expression grew steadily more thunderous. It had been a very long time since he had been on the receiving end of a look like that – he hadn't missed it.

"Um – yes – look – I _will_ tell you –"

"You're damn right you'll tell me."

"Honestly, can you just let me _finish_ – I will tell you but… It's too dangerous. For you. You can't talk to her. I'll – I'll do it. You need to trust me."

"You must take me for an idiot, _Salazar_." He sighed.

"Far from it, I assure you… When I've… done it, I'll take you there, to prove it." She observed him steadily for a moment. He imagined her thinking it through, presumably concluding that he would have no reason to lead her into a trap when it was he himself who kept bringing her back from the dead. She nodded bluntly.

"Do it before term starts," was all she said, and then she was gone, leaving the bright courtyard seeming somehow gloomier than it had been several minutes ago. He put down his book with a sigh and marked the place with the first thing that came to hand.

_Babayaga (Medieval, dates unknown) was a Russian hag who provided the basis for many stories passed into both muggle and magical folklore, often involving kidnapping or eating children. It is unknown whether any of the events described actually took place._

He tried to ignore the stab of pain that came with the realisation that Hermione now thought of him as a child murderer not so different from the old hag. Was it true? In a sense. But the child in question was still currently alive; he had something of a second chance. First he would go and find a rooster, and then… well.

 

~oOo~


	29. Chapter XXVII: Boudica

 

~oOo~

 

In the days and weeks that followed his conversation with Death, Albus was preoccupied almost to the point of insanity. He replayed the encounter in his penseive, in his waking mind, and in his dreams. He examined it from every possible angle of motivation; searched for every possible scrap of meaning, but had come to a dead end. It should have been a pleasant change, to be challenged by something – Merlin knew that teaching Transfiguration and listening to the insipid gossip of his fellow Wizengamot members was rotting his brain – but it wasn’t. It was unsettling and perplexing and left him feeling like a small cog in a large, invisible wheel.

It had been some while since he had considered any of life’s big questions, if he were honest – he was a busy man, after all, and not generally prone to idle speculation. In the years following Ariana’s death he had often found himself talking to her or wondering if there were any kind of afterlife, but it was a subject that eventually grew old since it was impossible to know the answer. If Death himself existed, though, there must be _something_. He yearned to know more, to speak further with Death, but unsurprisingly he did not show himself again. Albus could not even decide what had caused his appearance the first time: had it been something about Morgana’s tomb, or merely coincidence?

The tomb was another subject vying for space in his overcrowded mind. There was nothing to be done but keep it a secret and return promptly next midsummer, but that didn’t stop his questions from forming, uninvited and unanswerable. He had a nagging feeling that he had glimpsed the edge of something big – something he didn’t understand, but he wanted to – and Albus Dumbledore with his curiosity piqued was quite a force to be reckoned with. He was reminded apprehensively of another subject he had once been rather fanatically interested in.

When he had first developed an interest in the Hallows – upon moving to Godric’s Hollow – he wasn’t really sure if he believed it at all. It was just a fun way to pass the time, a sort of high-stakes intellectual treasure hunt. But later on Gellert’s conviction had persuaded him, and the more one dug into those particular legends the more one got the sense that they were based in fact after all. Now, he had confirmation from Death himself, and he didn’t know what to make of it. Death _wanted_ him to obtain the wand, apparently. It would be impossible to deny that he desired it; told himself that it was merely to keep it out of reach of less benevolent hands.

In between pondering the afterlife, and Morgana, and the Hallows, he had barely had time to consider Death’s central point: that he, Albus, should be the one to stop Gellert. He had become accustomed to that thought over the past year or several: accustomed, that was, to burying it deep down and ignoring it. Accustomed to steering Ministry policy and hoping they would one day act. Accustomed to pretending that there wasn’t a significant but powerful minority of pureblood families who would welcome the Revolution. For the Greater Good.

There were a huge number of reasons why he did not relish the thought of confronting the man – the very strong possibility of dying in the act might have been reason enough, though in fact it was by no means at the top of the list.

He _had_ feared knowing the truth about Ariana, hadn’t he? He could admit that now - hadn’t been able to before. But it was a double-edged sword because he now realised that, just as Death had said, it was irrelevant anyway. His sister was still just as dead as she had been for four decades, and all the instigators of the fight to blame. No – there was no need to fear Gellert’s words on the subject, except for the more obvious reason: public attention. People – important people – no longer knew or cared to know his past. He had worked tirelessly, almost night and day, for forty years, taking on three careers, to reach a position where his cultivated reputation was all anyone knew about him. Was it so wrong to desire privacy, at least, if not happiness?

There was a deeper dread, though, than was caused by the unwillingness to die or even by the idea of certain stories reaching the _Daily Prophet_. A much more personal dread, which simply appeared at the idea of seeing _him_ again. Because he knew that seeing him would melt the intervening years away until he was left as the boy he had once been, a moth against the incandescent flame of Gellert’s personality, charm, knowledge, and power. Albus was older now, stronger, and immeasurably wiser – confident to the point of arrogance, on the surface – he held several positions of power, though several less than he _could_ be holding, if he had accepted. And yet… and yet he knew that there was still somebody who could reduce him to nothing, ultimately because _he would let him_. Because he was… special. After all this time, and no matter how much Albus hated it and hated _him_. He had never been able to get him out of his mind, and so gave him power. He had never met anybody like him – like _them_ – and never would, and therein lay the problem.

Albus had known Gellert for a grand total of thirty-six hours when their relationship sailed past the confines of a regular friendship.

_“Do you want to know the real reason they expelled me from Durmstrang?” he asked, mischievously, and Albus blinked in surprise at the rapid change of subject, for they had been talking about the Hallows solidly since lunchtime._

_“I – you – they said it was dark magic.” Gellert laughed conspiratorially._

_“Durmstrang? Expel someone for dark magic? They don’t even call it that. They_ teach _us that!” The blond boy had advanced a step whilst he spoke, and now he was stood much closer than propriety would have dictated. Albus couldn’t quite meet his eyes anymore – had to avert his gaze out through his bedroom window where the sun was just setting over the empty fields beyond. He didn’t dare to speak, and after an excruciating length of time Gellert leant forward and whispered in his ear. “The Headmaster caught me fucking his granddaughter over the desk in his office…”_

_He was going red – could feel it, but couldn’t stop it, for the sudden turn of the conversation had taken him far out of his depth into entrancing yet uncharted waters. Gellert’s breath was warm against his neck, sending a shiver straight to… well. That, too, wasn’t a thing one should discuss in polite conversation. But then this didn’t really classify as such anymore._

_When he tore his gaze away from the window, the other boy had pulled back with a smug smile on his face. His brain, for perhaps the first time ever, was completely failing to supply him with something to say._

_“Have you ever had a girl, Albus?” He was frozen – couldn’t believe this discussion was happening to him – didn’t know whether to answer, and if so whether to lie. Gellert’s expression told him that he knew all of these thoughts and more. “…ever had a boy, then?” He couldn’t stop the sort of choking sound escaping his mouth._

_Of course he knew he wasn’t… normal. Of course he knew that the things he thought about in the dead of night weren’t what the others thought about. But he had never heard anyone say those words out loud – like it was a legitimate possibility – had never even voiced them in his own head._

_“Seriously? What did you_ do _at Hogwarts? It sounds unbearably dull. Didn’t you sleep in a –” he scrunched up his face in thought, as was his custom when trying to recall a forgotten word, a habit Albus found adorable – “_ _Schlafsaal... how do you call it?”_

_“D-dormitory,” he managed to reply. He was rewarded with a smile revealing a flash of perfect white teeth._

_“Ah, quite, quite. Didn’t you sleep in a… dormitory?”_

_“Of course… why?” Speaking to Gellert often gave him the feeling of being several steps behind; it was a feeling that had become completely foreign to him, but despite that he found it more often exciting than disconcerting._

_“Surely you must have –” he made a hand gesture which was entirely vague and yet still made Albus’ cheeks burn with embarrassment – “together?”_

_“W-what? No, of course not!” Gellert shook his head in amusement, eyes dancing._

_“Oh, Albus. You English are so terribly_ proper _. With anyone else I’d find it tedious, but with you…” He couldn’t breathe. The joke, such as it had been, was over now: Gellert was looking at him in a way he knew no one had ever looked at him before._

_“I’m going to make you come now.” It wasn’t a question. All the air seemed to have gone from the room; in the absence of Gellert’s voice, the silence was absolute. He nodded weakly, and in the next second Gellert was on his knees and reaching for the front of his robes._

_It should have been awkward – humiliating, even – or at the very least horrendously embarrassing. It wasn’t. There was no room for any thought beyond staying upright; he clutched desperately to the bookcase behind him as Gellert’s hand closed around him. His eyes drifted closed only to fly wide open again as the hand was replaced by something warmer and wetter._

_His most vivid fantasies had not come close to preparing him for the sensation – the sight – that followed. He knew he was crying out; saw Gellert throw up a silencing charm with a click of his fingers, and then their eyes met and he saw the wild laughter there. It was a conspiratorial exchange stemming from the mutual recognition of a kindred soul: nobody-else-would-understand-this-but-_ we _-do._

_He was laughing, now, because somewhere through the haze of euphoria in his mind he felt the chains of society falling away. He was not strange – he was_ special, _and here was another made just for him. This was what he had been searching for, without even knowing it; this kind of connection that he had never managed with anyone else. Any of the normal people, the not-special people, who didn’t understand. But now the answer was right in front of him, with golden hair and quick hands and a feral expression. With a tongue that was doing something that made his vision hazy and all his muscles burn against the urge to collapse, jelly-like, to the floor._

_He tried to give a warning when he couldn’t take any more, but the other boy either didn’t hear or he took no notice. The orgasm ripped through him so much more strongly than it had ever done before, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the pale column of Gellert’s throat as he swallowed again and again. The image seemed to burn straight into his retinas._

_Then it was over. Gellert smirked, fixed Albus’ robes and then stood up and smoothed his own down, though they were as immaculate as before._

_“I told you so,” he said, and before Albus could formulate a reply he added, “My aunt is expecting me for supper. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And just like that he was gone._

If only Albus could banish the memory with such ease, but he couldn’t – not that summer night in 1899 and not now, forty-two years later. But if he were really to confront Gellert, he would have to be able to manage his emotions. He would have to face up to the past.

 

~oOo~

 

Salazar packed a sturdy box with straw and settled the rooster inside, ignoring its squawk of indignation. Silencing it carefully, he apparated directly into a secluded corner of the chamber, making sure to keep his eyes tight shut. He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the great breadth of emotions threatening to surface.

_“Boudica?”_ With a wave of his hand and a moment of concentration he conjured his Patronus. Not the raven – _her_ raven – but his original form. An exact replica of the basilisk contained within these walls. He sent it to search for its corporeal counterpart, and it was a matter of mere seconds before an excited hissing began to echo from one of the passageways beyond. He remembered at the last moment to shift into his true appearance – the one she would recognise.

_“Salazar… Salazar?”_ He heard a slithering sound approaching and sensed her come to a stop right in front of him, presumably subjecting him to a thorough examination. After a few seconds, he felt the tip of her tail begin to prod him experimentally. He remained perfectly still.

_“Is it really you, Salazar?”_ She was wary, and reasonably so. It had been a long time.

_“Let me prove it to you...”_ he thought for a moment, and the memories came rushing back from a dusty corner of his mind.

_“I hatched you in the spring of 975, in a hut by the lake. You lived with me for almost a year, until you became too heavy to carry around. Then you lived outside for a season, and then I made these rooms for you. I left you with Cyneric in 993, and in 999 I… disappeared.”_

The tail tip ceased its prodding and began a more friendly exploration.

_“I thought I would not see you again. Where have you been? Have you come back for me?”_ He couldn’t bear to answer.  

_“Close your eyes – let me look at you.”_

_“Yes…”_

Well. His Patronus was an exact replica of the basilisk contained within these walls almost a millennium ago. It turned out that she was really quite a lot larger now – Hermione’s comments on the subject hadn’t prepared him for the creature that appeared in front of him when he opened his eyes. Her body stretched further than the dim light revealed even though it was folded double with her tail still curled around his legs. The spines along it, now the size of knives, looked lethal, but her head was lowered to the floor, eyes closed and averted, submissive. He stroked her snout somewhat tentatively and she made the same happy sound that she used to. It seemed rather incongruous now.

_“You’ve been growing,”_ he said, and laughed slightly as he recalled saying the same thing to Cyneric – his nephew, then aged about ten – a very long time ago.

_“Alas... in the beginning I had space to move, but these caverns are small to me now.”_

He looked around for the first time and saw the prison that his creation had become; no longer cared for, a thousand years of damp and grime accumulated everywhere.

_“Has nobody been down here? Have they not helped you?”_ He wished he really could pass the blame onto someone else.

_“Sometimes somebody comes,”_ she said, after a while. _“They call themselves the heir… your heir. Some were too scared to visit me more than once, and the rest treated me like a common Adder, or brought their friends down to gawp at me... They don’t care to listen to my stories. They talk about setting me on the students, as if upon your orders…”_ He swallowed hard, and wondered how to explain everything, but there were parts of the story even he didn’t know. When had his legacy gone from one of protection to one of murdering muggleborns? Probably sooner than he realised. She continued the tale as if a response were not required.

_“Some of them put me into a magical sleep when they left, and it would be a new child who would wake me. At first, I hated it… I thought of how you charged me to protect the school, and how it could fall while I slept… but lately it seems the only danger is already within. The last boy was perhaps the worst of them all… he did not make me sleep. I have stayed here alone, counting the winters past, wondering how long it would be until someone new came.”_

He could think of no adequate reply. Why hadn’t he been here? Because he had been selfish, and disinclined to face the pain of returning to Hogwarts at all. Then, more latterly, it was like he had truly become the alternate personality he had presented to Hermione – visiting her in the Hospital Wing he had been able to pretend that he had no connection to the castle at all.

After a while of his silence she continued to speak even more mournfully than before.

“ _I have long forgotten the colour of stars and the feel of rain. I have forgotten grass and sun and the sound of the wind in the trees.”_ He tried to stay calm, and not to feel the pain of the words, and the fact that this was, like everything else, his fault. He kept his voice even.

“ _I have come to free you,”_ he said, and there was a pause – she was thinking.

_“You are not taking me with you. You have brought a rooster.”_ If only he could tell her it wasn’t true, but a basilisk, let alone one this big, simply wasn’t a _pet_ – they couldn’t even look at each other simultaneously. He should have never brought her into being, into such a miserable life. There was no kinder solution now, and he was certainly not going to lie about it.

_“Yes.”_

There was a heavy pause, and then great creature hissed wordlessly, but it was a sound of assent rather than anger. She slithered even closer and wound her tail round and round until her whole body was a coiled spiral, the head protected in the centre. She had always slept like that; he remembered the first time, the night she hatched out. She had curled up inside the palm of his hand.

_“I am old, now,”_ she said. _“I have often wished for this moment. I am ready.”_ And then, tentatively, _“Will you stay with me?”_ He couldn’t answer past the lump in his throat, but sat down on the cold floor and leant up against her side. It was reassuringly solid and warm. Solemnly the seconds ticked away. He searched desperately for another solution, but there was none.

“ _You will like it, where you are going,”_ he said, when he could speak again. _“There is no need to be afraid, I promise.”_

_“Will we meet again?”_

_“Yes… Yes, one day, perhaps we shall.”_ He could no longer stop the tears from falling.

_“Goodnight, then, Salazar. You must protect our school now.”_ Her breathing evened out as she relaxed, trusting, and he stroked her smooth scales affectionately.

_“Yes,”_ he said. _“You have done well. Sleep, now.”_ And then, before the wait could become too oppressive, he forced himself to lift the silencing charm on the box.

The echo of the rooster’s cry had long since faded from the chamber when he at last wiped his eyes and stumbled stiffly to his feet.

 

~oOo~

 

There was a knock on her bedroom door barely an hour after their argument in the courtyard. A man shuffled inside, wearing the same robes that Zorion – _Salazar_ – had been wearing earlier. She had barely had time to put two and two together when he grabbed her arm and apparated them away, and then she was standing in front of several tonnes of deceased basilisk and all thoughts of his appearance left her mind entirely.

They had arrived in the main chamber where, in another lifetime, she had kissed Ron for the first and only time. The memory was hazy now, slipping away when she tried to look directly at it. After she had been lost in thought for some time she became aware of a large stone extricating itself from the cavern wall. Salazar directed it to the floor and then began to hollow out a space in the earth behind.

As the seconds wore on more and more questions occurred to her, but for some reason it seemed wrong to disturb the perfect stillness. Salazar worked with an air of detachment that seemed entirely forced, but his unfamiliar features gave her no insight to his mind. Eventually he turned away from the hole in the wall and raised his hands towards the giant snake; instantly the air began to roar and crackle with a sound like a thousand furnaces. Flames leapt blue and green as high as the ceiling, though the place where they stood remained cool and damp.

It was over as quickly as it had begun. With another movement of his hand, the fire disappeared and a column of ash whirled in the space where the basilisk had lain. Salazar was speaking in Parseltongue, now – it was a soft sound, and somehow perfectly natural coming from his mouth in a way it hadn’t been coming from Ron’s. It seemed unlikely to be a spell, for she had never once heard him say an incantation aloud, but she had no idea what he could be saying.

When he had finished speaking he took a pebble from the chamber floor and fashioned it into a kind of urn into which the ashes began to flow. It was only at this point that she fully realised the purpose of the preceding few minutes: they were burying the basilisk. She didn’t know what to make of it.

Once the urn was sealed, Salazar settled it carefully into the hole in the wall and retrieved a frog card from his pocket. She would have laughed – it was so horrendously out of place – but somehow she didn’t dare. The card was placed next to the urn, and then the giant stone slotted back in. He paused for a moment, as if in contemplation, and appeared to come to a decision to mark the spot. A circle carved itself onto the stone, gradually forming the image of a snake biting its tail: a symbol, clearly, of eternity. Then he took her arm and apparated them back to her bedroom without a word.

Once he had left, still without speaking, she went straight to the sitting room to examine the wall full of frog cards. There had to be some significance to the one placed in the grave. She recognised the picture straight away despite only catching a brief glimpse of it in the chamber.

 

_Boudica (1st century, dates unknown) was the Queen of the Iceni people in the region that is now Norfolk. She fought for independence against the invading Roman muggles, but was forced into hiding to avoid a witch-hunt following her army’s eventual heavy defeat in battle._

~oOo~


	30. Chapter XXVIII: Bridget Wenlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your comments and kudos. I can't tell you how happy it makes me :)

 

~oOo~

 

In the week between the demise of the basilisk and the beginning of the new term, ‘Zorion’ did not reappear. Whether or not he had originally intended her to see his true appearance, he seemed to now recognise that their charade had come to an end – she overheard part of a heated argument with his younger self, who objected to the disclosure, but in the end they both gave up on their disguises. The fact that the two of them avoided her whenever possible meant that a week was not really long enough to get used to the change; she still had a tendency to jump in surprise whenever one of them appeared, as if a stranger had invited himself into the house.

She had been sitting in the courtyard for some time when he entered. It was the last night of the holidays and a cool breeze heralded the approaching autumn though she was too deep in thought to pay the temperature any mind. She glanced up as he took the seat across from her, and then he feigned interest in the fountain to allow her thinly-veiled study of him to continue.

In many ways, he had picked a disguise not too dissimilar to his actual appearance: both Zorion and Salazar were almost a head taller than her, dark-haired and dark-eyed, but where Zorion had the kind of features you could lose in a crowd, the same could not be said for Salazar. She could tell that, in time gone by, he would have cut the kind of dominant figure that commanded instant attention. He was not the sort of person who could enter a room and stand in a corner, unnoticed, even now. Even when his eyes were distant and his shoulders slumped. She wondered what was on his mind, but assumed as always that she could not possibly know. Whatever he had told her, however sincere, had never been the whole truth, and he was privy to so many of the secrets of the universe… of course she was only a pawn to him. It had been naïve to think otherwise, but it was no good dwelling on that now. The whole situation was unchangeable.

She had liked him, a lot, and still did, though she had tried to fight it off. She respected him, even, in many ways, and could forgive much of what he had told her, now that she had had time to get over the shock of it. Because of the _liking_ and the _respecting_ , though, she had made the mistake of _trusting_ him – even though he had always told her that he was hiding something, so it was her fault, quite honestly – but at any rate she _had_ trusted him, and it wasn’t a mistake she would be making again. In this world, in this time, it was no use trusting anyone. She had to grow up and rely on her own strength.

He was gazing back at her, now, and she felt as though she were being assessed, too. Perhaps he was going to read her thoughts. Would she be able to feel that? She looked away just in case, and vowed to work harder on Occlumency. It startled her slightly when he began speaking, as it had done all week, because his voice was the same as it always had been. The sound made her shiver, bringing back echoes of _yes, yes_ and _please, darling_ and _fuck, yes, like that_. She willed herself to forget it and to listen.

“The day I became Death, I stopped ageing, if you were wondering,” he said. “That’s how it works.” Of all the things she _had_ been wondering recently, that wasn’t particularly one of them, but she didn’t say so.

“It never really occurred to me to appear in private as anything other than how I looked that day, and in public… well… you could say that this job has developed something of a uniform… anyway. I thought that you might recognise me – or Dippet might, even. I thought I should find a new appearance. It never occurred to me that…” he gestured between them uneasily, and she felt the weight settle in her chest. He had not wanted her – apparently could not even have conceived of wanting her, in the beginning. It hurt more than she wanted to admit, and she fought hard to stop her face from falling, because _feeling_ hurt was one thing, but _showing_ it was quite another.

“I understand your disappointment,” he continued, stiffly. “It was not my intention to pick a disguise so as to be… appealing to you. My younger self has accused me of such a thing even now.” She frowned, utterly confused, but he was still speaking. “You must have been wondering why he appears older than I.” This time, he was correct – she _had_ been wondering that, and so her previous confusion was put out of mind.

“He looks as he has done all along. The way he – the way _I_ – looked that day in 999. I was, I think, fifty-eight. But when I went to see –” there was a brief pause, here, and she imagined him thinking the name, but opting not to voice it – “the basilisk… I knew she would struggle to believe that it was me. I decided to change into the version of myself that she would best recognise. She hatched when I was perhaps… thirty years old. I left when I was approaching fifty – I suppose this –” he indicated vaguely to himself – “is somewhere between the two. I could… change… but the potential for mistaken identity might be… unfortunate.” She nodded offhandedly. Their interaction was stilted and awkward; she still could not describe the overriding emotion she felt for him, and wondered what he felt in return. In terms of the conversation at hand, it was hardly an issue whether he looked forty or sixty, was it? Not when he was actually over a thousand. It made total sense for the two of them to look different, as he had pointed out. Still she said nothing.

Time wore on, and the shadows lengthened, and the silence was introverted rather than companionable. When he spoke again she had to strain to hear.

“I’m lost,” he said, and there was no doubt as to the sincerity of it – he looked it – had looked it for days and weeks, now she came to think about it. “You’ve changed everything. You’ve changed _me_.”

She hadn’t a clue how to respond; merely fell even deeper into thought. The reverse was certainly true, she mused, in almost every conceivable way, but that, too, was something she had no desire to bring up.

“It’s been so long,” he continued, absently, staring out into nothingness. “So long, doing the same old thing, I stopped even thinking about it. At first I was drunk on the power of it all… it was such an honour, you know, to be immortal… to speak to the dead, to move freely among the living. It was decades before I got tired of it.” She wondered if his reflections were coming, in a round-about sort of way, to a _point_ , or whether she should finally break her silence. He kept speaking before she could reach a decision.

“Merlin was the last to die of anyone I truly cared for. After that, I slid into depression; there was no way out. Endless deaths, and increasingly nobody knew me. I withdrew. I stopped following the affairs of the living, because I could no longer stand to spare the time… A day’s soul collection, then back here to eat and sleep – that was the fastest way to advance through the years, hoping for the time to arrive when I could finally be free…

“I lost track of the Hallows – well, of the stone and the cloak – you could say that the wand has a habit of crossing my path. I hadn’t been paying attention in those early decades… I _wanted_ them lost and separated!” He drifted off into agitated memory for some while. When he continued, it was in a tone of resignation. “I didn’t know what to do. There’s a contract – things I’m not allowed to do. It’s a game to _them._ On the other side. I’m a joke. Did you know that?” He gave a humourless chuckle. “Quite a respected joke, you could say, having done the job so long… But still a joke. Almost all the past Deaths are. We all go through the same stages, you see, at one speed or another.”

For the first time since he had sat down beside her, she spoke, almost without thinking.

“Stages?” He looked bitter, and sighed heavily.

“There’s the smug stage. You think you’re better than everyone else: you’ve been let in on some big secret, because you were cleverer than the rest. Then there’s the sad stage. You realise that everyone you’ve ever known is dead, and that dying is… well, it’s _good_ , quite frankly, but _you_ can’t do it. That leads you into the angry phase. You call on all of the Elders and scream at them to change the system, to eliminate the Task and pick a new Death by some other method because you’ve served long enough. Then, when that doesn’t work, you finally reach resignation. We’ve all spent quite different lengths of time in that stage… I lasted about nine hundred years, before I resorted to more underhand tactics. Morgana lasted about six months.”

“You’re telling me that, despite this… contract thing, you’ve cheated?” He looked directly at her, steadily, with one eyebrow raised. It was an expression he had often used in his disguise as Zorion, but the effect was much more imposing – and more eerily natural – on his own face.

“You didn’t really think that the Elders would consider that changing sixty years of history was _fine_ , did you?” She hadn’t thought about it. She thought about it now. She supposed not, though she had very little idea who he was talking about.

“So – basically – not only did you ruin my life, but you did it against the wishes of _everybody who has ever died._ ” He flinched, and she felt a certain amount of regret, but didn’t know how to express it. He, too, was quiet for some time.

“You think you’re the only one that was happier before?” The words were surprisingly sharp against the still of the evening and the melancholy tone that had prevailed thus far. She blinked in surprise.

“What?”

“I was happier before! I was happier when I didn’t realise what a terrible person I’ve been! I was happier when I had a purpose, and a goal, and I knew I wanted to die. Now I just sit here all day being _useless_!”

“W-what?” she said, again, dumbly, and then, “Pardon?” as if to prove she knew more than one word. He frowned.

“I said, I just sit here all day being –”

“No,” she interrupted, “no, I meant… _you knew you wanted to die_. What do you mean?” She could see his eyes widen slightly – it was an uncharacteristic tell – a look of realisation that he had given away too much.

“Nothing,” he said, flatly, as if there were any chance that she might drop it.

“You’re… you’re not sure anymore? This whole thing – this whole ridiculous situation – my life, my future… and you’re not even _sure_ anymore?”

There was an odd sound; if his face had displayed any emotion, she might have called it a sob.

“Y-yes.”

She didn’t know what to feel. It was simply one more bizarre turn in a whole line of extraordinary events – it didn’t make any sense.

“Why?” He looked small, suddenly, and somehow anxious.

“Please don’t ask me that question,” he said, and she lowered her head, after a while, in frustrated acquiescence.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“I…” He seemed to falter. Paused. Began again, and the words provoked a huge tangle of emotion to well up inside, impossible to separate and analyse in the moment.

“Because you’re my friend.” It was so simple and yet so complicated; it said nothing and yet everything. It was a statement, and yet a question.

“Yes… yes, alright,” she said, eventually. And then, when the darkness had become almost absolute and there was no sign of a continuation of the conversation, “Goodnight, then. Salazar.”

For a while she thought there would be no reply – she had reached the door and turned the handle. The sound, when it came, was hesitant; muffled.

“G-goodnight.”

 

~oOo~

 

Slughorn turned up – late – to escort him to King’s Cross. As if he was going to go missing again, as if he was going to wander off at the point of being taken back to Hogwarts! Ridiculous. But still, there he found himself, being rushed through the barrier at one minute to the hour. If it had been left to him, he would have been in perfectly good time; he didn’t _rush_. He wasn’t _late_ for things.

The Professor didn’t have to take the train, of course – oh no – he got to apparate to Hogwarts. Tom’s best entreaties to be taken with him, however, fell for once on deaf ears. The idiot had evidently been expressly instructed to convey him to his destination specifically by means of the train.

Hermione was settled in the final carriage when he arrived, feet uncharacteristically resting on the seat opposite. It wasn’t that he _chose_ to sit with her, naturally, but the train hardly had an abundance of free space and he certainly wasn’t going to sit with anyone _else_. If he had arrived early enough, he might have been able to get a compartment to himself – nobody ever voluntarily came near him, after all – but Slughorn had put paid to that idea.

“When I’m a Prefect, I’ll be deducting points for that,” he said, by way of a greeting. She jumped, evidently having only just noticed him, and he smirked, looking from her legs to her face and back again. Her skirt had ridden up higher than he was accustomed to seeing; the view commanded his attention longer than he had intended it to. Her cheeks began to flush slightly red – which he also found surprisingly appealing – and she moved hastily.

“Oh! Hello, Tom….” She smoothed her hair down in what he had noticed was a common response to being caught off-guard, and promptly recovered her regular demeanour. “You? A Prefect?” He allowed himself a smile and sat down fluidly next to her.

“Don’t you think I’d be a good Prefect?” She chuckled.

“Perhaps. I’d like to see you take points from Malfoy.” He felt his lip curl in imagined satisfaction, and they shared a sort of conspiratorial look. Was that something that they did, now?

“One day I’m going to do more than take points from him,” he said, confidently, and he couldn’t quite explain the expression that this produced on her face; it was a sort of conflicted resignation. Interesting. When she spoke, she had obviously opted for changing the subject.

“What did you do over the summer?” He was surprised at her choice of topic, as obvious as it was. Last year, he wouldn’t have answered. Was _this_ something that they did, now? How much should he give away? Knowledge was a powerful thing; he appreciated that better than anyone.

“Nothing,” he said, casually. “I got grounded.”

“Whatever for?” Her surprise seemed slightly forced, but he attributed it to his previous history of reckless behaviour.

“It was boring. Almost everyone had been evacuated. So I thought I’d go to the countryside, too.”

“You just… went?” He shrugged offhandedly.

“I got a train. But Professor Dumbledore found me.”

“What happened then?” There was a fraction of a second when he considered telling her the truth, for some unfathomable reason, but then sanity prevailed. No sense in giving away anything until there was good reason.

“He took me back,” he said, and then flashed her a grin perfected by winning over years’ worth of teachers. She knew his acts, of course, but played along anyway and smiled back.

“Bad luck,” she said, lightly, and then, “I didn’t really do anything either. Nothing happens in Norfolk.” Tom was good at spotting lies, and something about her statement seemed off – perhaps it was the way she had volunteered the information so quickly. But since he had no real interest in discovering the truth, he let it go, and she immediately launched into an enumeration of the deficiencies of the new Charms textbook. The summer’s events had faded from mind before the train had even carried them out of London.

At some point he must have drifted off, as unusual as that was, because dusk was falling outside when he next became aware of his surroundings.

“Tom? Tom.” She was nudging his shoulder. She didn’t normally touch him – nobody did. He thought it ought to be strange, but it wasn’t particularly, so he resisted the instinct to brush her hand away.

“Tom? Do you want anything?”

He opened one eye, then the other. The tea trolley swam blurrily into view.

“No,” he said, scowling – because she knew he never had any money, so why was she humiliating him by asking?

“I’m paying.” She held up several knuts, as if by way of proof. His eyebrows climbed towards his hairline before he could stop them.

“I’ll have a chocolate frog,” he said, before he had even meant to. What was he thinking? He’d as good as admitted out loud that he didn’t have any money. Thankfully there was nobody else to witness it. Well, there was no way to save face now. “Please,” he added, quickly, for there was no need to add bad manners on top of stupidity. Hermione nodded to the trolley witch, and coins were exchanged for a frog and a cauldron cake. The compartment door slid closed and silence returned to the carriage. Tom rotated the pentagonal box in his hands thoughtfully.

“Why did you do it?” he asked, after a while. She swallowed a bite of cauldron cake delicately and then put the rest down, frowning.

“I just thought you might be hungry.” He blinked several times. Her face was sincere; she was a terrible liar anyway. There didn’t seem to be any kind of ulterior motive, which was very nearly unthinkable to him.

“But why would you _care_?” She appeared to consider this for some time. He wasn’t sure why the answer mattered to him – put it down to curiosity.

“People like us should look out for each other,” she said, finally. “Nobody else is going to.”

He wanted to point out that there was _nobody_ like him, but it was true that he had more in common with her than with anyone else he had ever met. So instead he smiled, and opened up the box – the frog was summarily consumed, and then he turned his attention to the card. The woman in the picture, who had been writing, put her paper away hastily and glared at him suspiciously.

_Bridget Wenlock (1202-1285) was a gifted Arithmancer best remembered for proving the magical properties of the number seven. Notoriously paranoid, but often absent-minded, she was known to frequently lose calculations written in invisible ink._

“Thanks,” he said, eventually, and wondered if _that_ was something they did now. She looked almost comically surprised, as if she were thinking the same thing. It was… nice. Yes, it was nice. He chose not to dwell on it.

 

~oOo~


	31. Chapter XXIX: Newt Scamander

 

~oOo~

 

For the first time, Albus did not celebrate the arrival of the first day in September. During his own school days, he had barely been able to conceal his joy at leaving home and travelling to the castle, and as a Professor he disliked the summer break for a wide variety of reasons, but this year…

Hogwarts was the same, of course. The new anxious faces, the elves, the food, the ghosts – the gossiping of the other teachers, the portraits, the clutter in his office and the furnishings in his rooms – indistinguishable from last year, and the four decades before that. The difference, then, was internal; he was uneasy and on edge.

He suffered through the Headmaster’s post-feast welcome drinks, where as usual the topic of conversation for the over-seventies was the weather and the topic for the under-fifties was Slughorn’s latest conquest. What had he ever found to say about either of those things? He knew he was not like any of the others, and never had been, but equally he had never felt like the complete outcast he did this time. He begged off early, claiming a pressing piece of correspondence from the Minister. In fact he had answered it that morning, and it had hardly been urgent, but they didn’t need to know that.

Back in his private sitting room, he sighed heavily and poured himself a brandy. It was probably a bad idea, given that he had just had one in the Headmaster’s office – not to mention the wine with dinner – but he needed the fortification. There was no putting it off any longer.

The box was uncarved oak, about ten inches across and eight deep, and had once been used to store pots of ink. He took it from the coffee table, gingerly, as though it might bite, and opened the lid to reveal the stack of parchment within. The scent of stale air and dust wafted out and he fancied he could even smell something of Gellert and, even more faintly, the old house at Godric’s Hollow. It was a powerful bolt from the past: he told himself it was just the brandy.

His own handwriting adorned the folded outside of each letter – _1, 2, 3_ – labelled chronologically and carefully as if the papers were important historical artefacts. He had laid them inside this very box, one by one as they arrived, almost reverently: the mementos of a great relationship in its infancy. Something to reminisce over fondly in years to come, though reminiscing was not the word for what he was now doing. He forced himself to search inside and remove number one.

 

_Albus –_

_I write because, despite the lateness of the hour, I cannot sleep for thinking. I wonder if you are awake also?_

_How fortunate it is that we should have been introduced to each other! I was dubious, I admit, when Aunt Bathilda first mentioned such a thing – after all, in such a sleepy place, what are the chances of finding two such as us? You will forgive my initial rudeness, I hope, or at least forget about it in the greatness of what is surely to come._

_Even among the more enlightened members of our society – both here and in Europe – there can be dreadful prejudice lain upon those who dare to suggest an overturn of the Statute of Secrecy: that our views on this matter should coincide is exhilarating to me. Wizards have been given powers that muggles cannot dream of, so why do we cower and hide? It can change, and it must. In fact, magic could be of use to muggles, so the whole thing is in their interests too._

_I will see you in the morning, waiting until ten as you suggested, though I struggle to understand your willingness to assist your brother with the daily chores. You are made for far higher a calling than keeping chickens, and he would in all probability enjoy it more without you!_

_Gellert_

 

Albus re-folded the yellowing parchment and placed it back into the box with shaking hands. He thought about the elation he had felt at receiving it, still sat at his desk gone midnight, silence at last from Ariana’s room. Their mother’s death had hit them all hard, but his sister the hardest. Aberforth had been in there, comforting her, like always: he was better at it. Albus himself, though he cared, had lacked the patience in those days. He forced himself to halt that train of memory before it could progress any further.

He thought, then, about the contents of the letter, and was reminded of the way Gellert had first seen him – Bathilda had let herself in through the gate just as he was attempting to muck out the pigsty. It hadn’t created a favourable first impression, and had been the first nail in the coffin of his withdrawal from helping Aberforth at all. Within days of meeting his new friend, he had left his brother virtually alone in the running of the household and the care of his sister, a fact that had long since made him cringe with shame. They were still not on speaking terms, but was that because of Aberforth’s ability to hold a grudge or his own guilt preventing him from initiating contact?

When he couldn’t sidetrack himself any longer, he thought about the letter he had excitedly scribbled in response. He didn’t have it now, obviously, and hoped fervently that it had been burned, because he could remember with pinpoint clarity four particular words he had chosen to use. He might have even capitalised them, the way he had later seen them in a picture in the _Daily Prophet_. Above a caption that read _Grindelwald builds prison to detain political opponents._ He shivered, though a fire burnt in the grate and the night was not cold. How many people were held inside Nurmengard at this very moment, behind the gates bearing that slogan? How many people had died, resisting that cause?

He shut the box. It had barely turned ten o’clock, but he was exhausted; he would try again another night.

 

 ~oOo~

 

He told himself that the first day would be the hardest. When the second came, and the ache in his chest had not diminished, he told himself that once the week was out the worst must surely be over – and when the next, too, came and went, he stopped telling himself anything at all.

Talking to his younger self about any subject was awkward, at best, these days. Talking to the elves involved endless references to the very person he was trying so hard to stop thinking about, and talking to the thestrals was barely better, so very soon he began to withdraw altogether.

Knowing a set of events was going to unfold didn’t help you cope when they finally did: he knew that now. Perhaps while she had still been there, he was kidding himself that it was only a matter of time before she… before she what? Forgave him? Even in his own head, it seemed unlikely and ridiculous; too shallow a word for the magnitude of the action involved. He had seen her on that last night, barely able to look at him and averting her gaze whenever their eyes began to meet. It was like she would no longer acknowledge the very fact of his existence.

When he had talked about needing the disguise, he hadn’t been prepared for her expression. He probably should have been. It wasn’t as though he had expected her to take to his true appearance – very few people ever had – his seduction had always relied on other factors. In the tenth century people had found his Spanish features particularly unusual next to their pale skins and mostly fair hair, though in this age of migration he supposed that was not the issue it had once been. Maybe his appearance was irrelevant to her apart from the fact that it was different to how he had been before. Either way, she didn’t want _him_.

Her silences that night had crushed him and made him keep talking like an idiot, revealing more and more in the hope of a redemption which never came. He had almost begun to consider reading her thoughts in order to gain an insight, but even aside from the morality of it there was no point. It was clear that she hated him, and if she were ever to not hate him again, he was going to have to stop behaving like a child seeking approval. He forced himself to back off. He forced himself to burn the letters he wrote to her, and to stay away from Hogwarts.

It was the most desolate he had ever felt; even the deepest depths of his centuries-old hopelessness could not compare. At least back then he had known the outcome he _wanted_. Now, though, the thought of crossing to the other side was, if anything, marginally less appealing than the thought of remaining in this world indefinitely. Was his fate even tied to that of his younger self anymore? He wished he knew the answer, though in practice it made little difference at the present moment.

Not for the first time, he wished he could speak with Merlin, or _somebody_ , but still he didn’t dare. He couldn’t predict what penalty his time-altering plan might incur, and it was unthinkable to subject himself to something so totally out of his control. They might force him to be Death eternally, or force him to pass over… but on the other hand, he could hardly just stay here forever. It was almost worse, not collecting the souls, even though the day was far shorter. He needed to find something to do. Activity to suggest purpose, purpose to suggest achievement, achievement to suggest self-esteem.

What could he do? The world was vast and its possibilities abundant, even in the face of eternity. He had seen every inch of the planet and all of its inhabitants, from the highest peak to the deepest ocean. Where was his place amongst them? Apart from soul-collecting, the only job he had ever done was teaching, and he wasn’t altogether sure he had been much good at that anyway. Perhaps it was time for a change.

He went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water, and tried to tell himself it was what he actually wanted, rather than what would please Hermione, if she were here, which she _wasn’t_ , anyway. Then he found a chocolate frog, mostly out of habit, and went to sit down and consider his options.

_Newt Scamander (1897 –) is an English wizard regarded as the world authority on magical creatures. He is the author of ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’, which has been an approved textbook at Hogwarts since its first publication in 1927._

And, just like that, he had an idea.

 

~oOo~

 

“You found it!” was the first thing she said upon rounding the corner. She had had some time to come up with a strategy for this moment, and had opted to ensure she would be there when the Chamber was opened – she had been in her room, using the time before dinner to read up on Occlumency, when her alarm ward went off. It had been a matter of seconds before she was out of the door and running towards the dungeons.

Tom was on his knees, examining an elaborate snake carving that had appeared on the large cornerstone at the end of the most remote dungeon corridor. Salazar had described it to her, but only someone with his blood could make it appear, so she had not yet set eyes on it.

He looked up in shock – of course he did, because why on earth would she be there? Why on earth would _anyone_ be there, it that corridor, when it lead nowhere? It took several seconds for him to compose himself, but when he spoke it was with the dangerous undercurrent she had not heard him use for a long time.

“Found what?” She maintained her air of nonchalance with some difficulty.

“Well, the Chamber of Secrets, I assume.”

Never had she seen him show so much emotion – horror, disbelief and anger easily visible, followed eventually by curiosity. Two years ago, she knew, he would have done something terrible to her, but she had predicted correctly that he was far more in control now. Perhaps he even liked her, though she wasn’t about to bank on that.

“Alright,” he said, and he was almost smiling, now, and she hadn’t predicted _that_ – “how did you know?”

“I read about it in Hogwarts: A History,” she said, the smugness not entirely forced. “I was curious, of course. The library doesn’t have much else to say, does it? But I figured that you would know more, since you’re the heir of Slytherin. It was obvious you’ve been looking for it.” She wondered, in the original timeline, how often Tom Riddle – or _Voldemort_ – could have described himself as shocked. It was clear he was unused to it, and even clearer that he hated it.

“Nobody knows about that,” he said, coldly, standing up. He was several inches taller than her. “You can’t possibly know about that.”

“Oh, come on. I’ve got a brain just the same as you have. I worked it out ages ago, when you were getting all those ancestry books. I only had to find out your middle name to be certain, and that’s on the school record. It took me a lot longer to catch you speaking to a snake, though, so I don’t suppose anyone else suspects unless you’ve told them.”

Tom blinked in disbelief. It was a turning point in their relationship, or in his _life_ , she hoped – she had engineered it that way. He would either turn against her now, and throw her out, or let her in. Defeat Voldemort, or change Tom Riddle: the decision would be made for her, here and now. She played her final card, and hoped.

“Have you worked out how to get in? I’d really like to see it. Besides, if there’s a basilisk, it might be safer with two of us.”

He turned away from her, resuming his examination of the snake carving, and for a while she wondered if he was opting for ignoring her indefinitely. Then she realised that he was stuck, but not going to admit it. She weighed her options quickly.

“Have you tried… talking to it?” Did her voice sound odd? She was terrible at hiding things, even now – Tom made her nervous, with the way he always seemed to spot a lie. It was in her favour now that he was concentrating on something else, back turned.

“What?”

“Talking to it… you know, as if it was a real snake.” There was a long pause, because Tom wasn’t someone who responded well to suggestions. She should probably have let him work it out on his own. Eventually, he began to hiss quietly. She couldn’t understand it, of course, and wondered if she should be trying to learn, but could barely even work out where one word ended and another began.

She was starting to worry that she would have to make another suspicious suggestion when all of a sudden the wall appeared to melt away. Behind it, the first two steps of a steep staircase were visible but whatever followed was shrouded in complete darkness. Her gasp was, somehow, genuine, but Tom made no outward reaction.

“You first, then,” he said with a smug expression, and she just caught it turn to shock as she swept past him and into the shadows.

There were torches on the walls, as there were everywhere else in the castle, and she lit them one by one as she descended, careful to proceed with an amount of caution appropriate for someone unaware of the recent demise of the Chamber’s lethal inhabitant. From higher up the staircase, Tom’s hissing heralded the sealing of the passageway behind them; she thought of how terrifying it would have been, had she really been not-quite-fourteen and unknowing of what lay beyond.

They crept along for what felt like a long time, her making a show of listening around all the corners and him making a show of bold indifference; neither spoke. Eventually the steps levelled off into an antechamber where the relative warmth of the dungeon corridor above gave way entirely to cold and damp. Puddles had formed here and there and small bones littered the floor, algae and moss adding a green hue to the walls. Twin corridors stretched, darkened, to the left and right; directly ahead was a large archway revealing a glimpse of the pillars in the central hall beyond.

Tom began to speak in Parseltongue again, presumably hoping to locate the basilisk, and she took the time to light the torches in the two side passages. Apart from the similarities with every other dungeon hallway they did not seem familiar; the pipe from Myrtle’s bathroom evidently connected with the opposite side of the chamber.

“Do you hear anything?” she whispered. He shook his head irritably.

“Which way?” If, like Tom, she had never been there before, her instinct might have been to skirt the archway and inspect the corridors. It was obvious he was having the debate in his mind. Eventually he drew himself up taller and walked straight into the main chamber. She was struck by the notion of how odd it would seem for Draco Malfoy – actually, _any_ Malfoy – to do a thing like that.

It was empty, of course, and just the same as it had been several weeks ago. A greenish light illuminated the space from an unseen source, the ceiling high and vaulted. They were far below the earth here – for the first time she appreciated the scale of the work. With a reversal of the neglect it had suffered, it would be one of the more impressive parts of the castle. Tom began hissing again, louder this time, and a rat scuttling across the stones in the distance made her jump even though she _knew_ there could be no basilisk.

In here, at least, there was no sign that the creature had ever existed, and the thought was somehow saddening. It had been intelligent, evidently: not simply a monster. It couldn’t help how deadly it was… but what choice had she had? A basilisk was just about the last thing she wanted on Tom’s side.

She had been tuned out, thinking, and when she snapped back to reality Tom was examining the stone bearing the tail-eating snake: she had been wrong. There was _one_ sign. Naturally, Tom assumed that this image, like the one in the dungeon corridor, would respond to Parseltongue.

The minutes ticked gradually by, the cold seeping steadily through her jumper, and Tom’s hissing became progressively more irritated.

“Tom –” he did not stop, merely turning his back on her more completely. “Tom! We’re going to miss dinner, let’s go back…”

“Shut up and go back then.” He didn’t turn to face her.

“I can’t get back through the wall, stupid.” She saw his fists clench at his sides – it probably wasn’t a good idea to call him names when he was already irritated, but she didn’t really care.

“Shut up and _wait for me_ , then.”

“Fine. I just thought you were smart enough not to make people suspicious about where you are. Professor Dumbledore, for instance.”

The sound of stone exploding made her scream: she had to cover her face to shield herself from flying debris from the wall. When she looked up, Tom was already striding back the way they had come.

Somehow, the space containing the basilisk ashes had not been exposed by the blast. She forced herself to hurry after him without repairing the damage; he would unquestionably love the opportunity to shut her in down here. As it was, she only just caught up to him as they reached the top of the staircase. He was blocking the exit, rather unnecessarily.

“You won’t tell anyone.” It wasn’t a question. “What I did to that wall… I could do to you. I don’t suppose they’d ever find your body if I hid it down here.”

She narrowed her eyes. He wasn’t joking, of course, although he’d be in for a bit of a surprise given her habit of resurrection.

“I might not be able to get in here by myself,” she said, icily, “but don’t think that means you’re so superior. I’m not scared of you. And I _won’t_ tell anyone, but only because it suits _me_ best that way.”

In the dim light she almost missed the slight flick of the wrist that was Tom’s preferred method of casting, but she was always ready these days; as comfortable as him, now, without a wand. The spell – whatever it might have been – collided with her shield in a shower of blue sparks. She felt the weight of his glare, but no further hostilities came. The shield presently stuttered and faded, taking some of the tension away with it. Tom turned abruptly to face the wall and it opened before she noticed he was giving the password, allowing them back into the still-deserted corridor. Somewhere above, the clock bell was chiming.

She had been imagining the _save Tom_ scenario, or failing that, the _defeat Voldemort_ scenario. On the way to dinner, she began to realise that there were more than two possibilities. The future was many things, but black-and-white was not one of them.

 

~oOo~


	32. Chapter XXX: Gondoline Oliphant (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter I (may have) made a small deviation from canon in terms of the layout of the Chamber of Secrets... Or maybe it's only a deviation from the film set. Anyway. I expect we'll all be able to live with it.

 

 

~oOo~

 

With Britain’s fortunes in the war – both muggle and magical – worsening, and the heated arguments hence going on among the Wizengamot, not to mention the regular pressures of the new school term, it was some weeks before Albus opened the box again. He’d had an extra large brandy this time, knowing full well what letters number two and three contained.

 

_Albus –_

_This night, too, I find myself awake, but for a different reason… What a pity that I had to leave so abruptly, or you might have returned the favour and put me out of my misery. I wonder if your many talents will extend to this area? My imagination does not struggle to conjure it; it is in your nature to seek perfection in all things, and in mine too. You make quite the sight, incidentally._

_Aunt Bathilda asked many questions at supper – she is thrilled we are ‘getting on’ (!) – can you imagine the look on her face if I told her the whole truth? Isn’t it exciting, having a secret? As we have already frequently remarked, the lives of others are so dull!_

_I await tomorrow eagerly; my own company is no substitute for yours._

_G_

 

There was no way these pieces of paper – these memories – should still hold power over him, so why was he trembling? Worse than that, why was his traitorous body – by no means eighteen anymore – still responding? He would master it. If he were ever to face Gellert again, voluntarily or otherwise, he would _not_ make a fool of himself. He would not.

The things he had said in his reply could probably make him wish the earth would swallow him up, if he were to read it again now, so it was just as well that he didn’t have it. With hindsight, he had been trying to make up for the inexperience he had demonstrated earlier that day, and he had always found it easier to write something down than to say it aloud. He unfolded letter number three before he could lose his nerve.

 

_Albus –_

_Who would have thought that you could bring yourself to write such things? Already, it seems, I have been a bad influence. How thrilling._

_I imagine you sat at your desk, stroking yourself as you await my response. How do you do it, I wonder? Do you like the rhythm that I find most pleasing, or another entirely? We have so much to learn about each other._

_Perhaps, instead of remaining at the desk, you have retired to bed. I can imagine that too. Tomorrow I will lie there, I’ve decided, while you suck me. Your movements are going to be shy, I expect – almost apologetic. It’s going to drive me wild with need._

_Finish yourself now, then sleep, and in no time I will see you again._

_G_

Oh, Merlin. He couldn’t do this. It was too much. He hated himself for his past behaviour; hated, too, his present reactions. Hated whatever it was in his head that made him desire the body of a madman but not one single woman, however attractive or intelligent or socially acceptable. Even his fantasies of other men were rare and short-lived, for who could compare? As for anything beyond fantasy… non-existent. He was not the type for casual encounters – think of the gossip – and equally disinclined or incapable of forming lasting attachment. And so, as the decades passed and youth became middle age, Gellert had remained his sole point of reference for any physical contact beyond the formal. How he would laugh, if he knew… and he probably did know. Or would, somehow, upon setting eyes on him.

He ought to be a good actor because his public persona was little more than a charade, or a caricature of himself, but it relied on people not having known him _before_. He would need to pull off that same confidence in the face of whatever Gellert could say to him, if he were to have any chance of beating him. The inevitable duel was not the issue – the issue was in the mind. With a deep breath, he ignored his exhaustion and extricated the fourth letter.

Thankfully, they had discussed nothing more exotic than international politics on that third night. Letters four, five and six contained a debate about the relative merits of starting the revolution in Scandinavia – where support might be strongest – or in Austria-Hungary, where the political situation was already fragile. Albus noted, with yet more shame, that it had been _him_ to argue the case for Austria-Hungary, which was what Gellert had ultimately chosen to great effect. Exactly how much was he to blame? It was unhelpful to dwell on it, he decided.

The fireplace roared to life, signalling an impending Floo connection, and he shoved the letters hastily back into the box. Number seven would have to wait for another night.

 

~oOo~

 

The more Tom thought about the circumstances surrounding his discovery of the Chamber of Secrets, the more puzzled and angry he became. How had she just _happened_ to round the corner at that moment? How had she known all those other things? There was something odd about her, and always had been – something that had drawn them together from the very beginning. Something that didn’t add up, even though he had no idea what it was.

Increasingly last year he had put it down to his own surprise at finding someone of reasonable intelligence among the mass of idiot classmates. But it was more than that, wasn’t it? The way he had never been able to follow her around, as if she could just disappear. The way she seemed to follow _him_ , without him even noticing. It was unsettling at best.

His options, at least at the present time, were limited. He could kill her, as he had threatened… but it would be an empty sort of victory, because then he would never know how she did it all. Not to mention the risk, however small, of discovery and punishment. Or the unfortunately larger risk of her overpowering _him_. No. Violence, in this instance, was very much a last resort. It hadn’t worked in the past.

What was the alternative? He could keep her close, and try to learn her secrets through trust, but she never seemed to be affected at all by anything others found charming. Their encounters were therefore more like a fragile truce than a friendship, though in truth he would have little idea what a friendship was – and no use for such a thing anyway. At any rate, the strategy of closeness would be a lot of effort for a low chance of success.

On the other hand, hiding from her had so far been entirely unsuccessful. And if she were inclined to discover things anyway, it made more sense to eliminate the secrecy, because at least that way he would be in a certain amount of control. Maybe she could even make herself useful.

These thoughts took several days to mull over, and it was even longer before he could come to a decision on a course of action, so September was almost out before he found himself in front of the snake carving again.

Hermione, who had been keeping watch around the corner whilst he opened the passageway, slipped through behind him. He re-sealed it quickly.

“There’s an hour until the dinner bell. Have you got some parchment?” She looked at him quizzically: good. He was determined to take the lead down here. “I’m going to make a map of the corridors. We don’t know how far they extend.”

“Oh,” she said, rifling through her ever-present bag. “That’s a good idea.”

They soon got into a system, him counting the distance in measured paces – and trying his best not to appear bothered every time there was the slightest scuttling noise in the distance – and her taking notes in typical verbosity. What had happened to the snake? Whether a basilisk or not, the fact remained that he had heard _something_. Several times, last term, but not since the summer… it was too early to draw any sort of conclusion from that.

After about half an hour had passed they found themselves back at the foot of the original staircase; the twin corridors formed nothing more complicated than a rectangle around the main chamber. He’d been hoping for some kind of labyrinth, if he were honest, but at least there were several side rooms as yet unexplored.

The first door, barely a dozen paces to the left of the staircase, stood open a crack. It took both of their weight to shift it; the hinges had seized, presumably with rust. Inside the large room a long table ran parallel to the corridor. It looked to be made of one single gigantic piece of wood, warped with age and damp – behind, a row of barrels stood in various states of completeness: a stain beneath one indicated that it had once contained wine. Cups, plates and knives were scattered about haphazardly. He wondered when the last person had sat down to eat there. Centuries ago? Hermione was pacing out the room’s width and depth: he saw her write _Dining/Store Room_ on the parchment before returning to the passageway.

The second door was just around the next corner and swung open with less effort – the atmosphere was, for some reason, drier on this side. The room was the same size as the dining room but empty save for a bench along one wall facing a single carved chair.

“What do you think this was for?” asked Hermione. He made a circuit of the space. On the wall containing the door ran a series of scorch marks, replicated opposite.

“The defence room has these,” he said, always happy to work something out before she did. “It’s probably why Professor Merrythought bans so many spells from duelling practice.” She raised her eyebrows, looking around again, and wrote down _Classroom_ , followed by a question mark.

From the classroom, the passageway climbed uphill for some distance before levelling out and taking another turn to the right. The third door was in the centre of this corridor, on the exact opposite side of the main chamber from the entrance arch and staircase. It was, in fact, two doors, each reaching to the ceiling and wide enough for several people to pass through. Instead of handles, iron rails provided a place for multiple pairs of hands to grip. Hermione tucked the parchment back into her bag and they both took hold of the left-hand rail.

It was locked, or rusted shut, or simply too heavy to move. Trying the right hand one yielded the same result. Trying with magic was no better: the door was defiantly immobile, while they were left exhausted and gasping down the damp dungeon air. He looked around for another snake carving – touched each panel of the door to no avail. It was some time before either of them spoke.

“These open outwards,” said Hermione, in a far-away sort of voice. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but only narrowly.

“ _Evidently._ Or did you think we were pulling on that bar for fun?”

“No – _no_ , I mean, look – they open, _outwards_.” She mimed the movement of the door through the space, and he was just about to mock her again when he suddenly understood. The doors were exactly the width of the corridor – and exactly the height of the corridor. Opening them would seal it off. In unison, they turned to face the wall behind, and he knew what would happen when he touched it.

The password for this snake was the same as the one upstairs – _open_ , originally enough – but this time the wall did not disappear entirely. Instead, a circular hole formed in it, perhaps three feet across. It appeared to be the entrance to a sort of slide, lined with bare earth.

“I – I don’t think that was designed for a human.” He nodded in agreement. Though he could easily fit through, it was hardly the sort of thing you might find in a playground.

“I’ve got a hunch where it comes out.” With a wave of his hand the corridor fell into darkness, but as predicted, a faint glow was now visible through the opening. He relit the torches.

“Here.” She produced an apple from her bag – he took it, and, understanding the purpose, threw it lightly into the tunnel. A dull thud followed. Doors number four and five flashed past as they hurried back downhill to the archway but they paid them no attention, both intent on confirming the suspicion.

It seemed to take a long time to cross the length of the chamber, but eventually the red of the apple came into view at the end. It had come to rest on the flagstones just underneath the Slytherin statue: just underneath the mouth, in fact, which was a circular tunnel lined with bare earth. Behind him Hermione was speaking, though perhaps more to herself than to him.

“They could let it out. Without looking at it. They could open the slide, like you just did, and then open those doors, remaining on the outside. Clever, really.” He thought about it for some time, looking around. “Why take such care, though, when the other end is an open archway? Unless it _wasn’t_.” She was halfway back by the time he turned around, walking surprisingly quickly. He caught up with difficulty, but she had already spotted her quarry, leaving him feeling frustratingly sluggish.

“Here! This is where the hinges were. And here –” she went into the corridor and indicated a faint vertical line of abrasion on the stones – “here is where it opened, and scraped on the wall.” He didn’t say anything, because she was far too smug already. Eventually she continued, in a smaller voice, “Do you think it’s still there? Behind the doors…” He shrugged with as much nonchalance as he could manage and looked at his watch.

“Next time we’ll find out,” was all he said, ascending the stairs without a backward glance.

 

~oOo~

 

She shouldn’t be thinking about him. Honestly, it wasn’t like there was even any _time_ , because there were classes – including all the extra third year classes – and meals and homework; there was visiting Tiggy and studying Occlumency and Animagi and working on the Marauder’s Map. There was the small matter of ensuring that the universe remained safe from Voldemort.

And yet she _did_ think of him. She thought, at night, of lying with him, and during the daytime she replayed their conversations in search of missed clues; something to tell her that he really cared, even as each day passed with no letters and her hopes of having meant something to him seemed more and more remote. She thought of his past, and all the things she still didn’t know, and of the present, and what he was doing, and of the future, and where the Hallows were. She thought of his voice, a constant despite his changing looks. She thought of Zorion, whose face and body had become so familiar – and then, secretly, she imagined Salazar, and wondered what he looked like… underneath.

Increasingly, she thought about the Chamber of Secrets. A bunker, she now realised, kitted out for a siege – even a classroom, so the work of the then-fledgling school could continue. An ingenious layout, to protect the inhabitants from their deadly weapon… all in all, unlikely to be the gruesome work of a mudblood-hating psychopath, as she had all but accused. Time and again she wondered if she should write and apologise, but she told herself that since he hadn’t even written on her birthday, he must be apathetic or busy or both. So she tried to forget all about it, throwing herself into work.

Visiting the secret space soon became habit – neither articulated it, but every day at five they would converge in the dungeon corridor, silent until they passed through the wall.

The fourth door, in the hallway on the opposite side of the chamber to the one with the classroom, contained what had once been a kind of dormitory. A row of small wooden bed frames had survived though there was no sign of mattresses or blankets. No other furniture remained except a single heavy chest which was disappointingly empty.

The fifth and final room was, like the dining room, adjacent to the stairwell. Along the back wall, sheltered by a carved wooden screen, ran a row of toilets – or rather, a raised plank of wood with large holes at regular intervals. On the other side of the screen stood several large wooden tubs accompanied by buckets – the water source was a stone tank in the corner, somewhat resembling an animal trough. She was thankful that the rest of the school had adopted relatively modern muggle plumbing, because the thought of using _that_ bathroom wasn’t particularly appealing.

It was the third door, though, that monopolised Tom’s attention. They still could not move it, try as they did, every day, with a dozen methods from the ingenious to the violent. She wondered if the protection was original, or an addition of some previous heir – or even the work of Salazar mere weeks ago, in which case they were sure never to get through without assistance. In truth, she didn’t know whether to help Tom or attempt to hinder him, because she had no idea of what lay behind the door, other than that it presumably somewhere connected with the first floor girls’ bathroom.

Because of his obsession with the door, Tom had not yet appeared to consider any of the Chamber’s other secrets. The final resting place of the basilisk, for instance, remained intact. The metal door, through which she and Ron had entered on that fateful day, went unnoticed – from this side it didn’t immediately appear to _be_ a door, and at any rate it was inconspicuously tucked into a far corner. Another thing she had yet to investigate was a possible link to the kitchens: her work on the Marauder’s Map replica had caused her to notice that the castle’s food stores were situated directly above the dining room. The kitchen proper, she predicted, lay largely above the classroom, the heat from the ovens being the reason the damp was kept at bay over there.

After a couple of weeks of spending a freezing hour staring at the unmoving doors, she decided to take action.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, as they descended the staircase on a Friday afternoon in early October, “that there might be another way in.” Tom, as was his norm, said nothing at first. It was unclear whether the purpose of this was a form of politeness, to give her time to explain, or merely lack of interest.

“Earlier, I went to use the bathroom on the first floor, and… while I was washing my hands, I noticed that there’s a snake design on one of the taps. I know it sounds quite silly… but it might be worth a try.” They continued walking, Tom frowning somewhat.

“The one next to the Defence classroom?” She nodded. “I can’t just walk in there.”

It was a fair point. The bathroom – devoid of the ghost of Myrtle, though quite often containing her younger living self – was probably the busiest one in the castle, owing to its location very close to several classrooms as well as the main staircase. The fact that it had remained unused for fifty years in her original timeline was something of a testament to just how annoying the ghost was.

“What about first thing in the morning?” Slughorn was still under orders to escort Tom to bed every night after dinner, so evenings or nights were impossible: his room was locked and warded.

They continued walking the familiar path to the double doors, long since having lost any fear of the gloom or damp or – in Tom’s case – possible basilisk. It was very nearly companionable.

“Alright. You go to breakfast. It’s too suspicious if we’re both missing.” On this particular occasion, she couldn’t help but think that a lookout might be helpful, but she decided not to argue the point. It _would_ be suspicious, since they were just about the only two students who routinely ate at the earliest possible time.

“Fine.”

When Tom, complete with murderous expression, entered the Great Hall for breakfast the next morning on the heels of Professor Dumbledore, she was barely surprised.

 

~oOo~


	33. Chapter XXXI: Gondoline Oliphant (Part Two)

 

~oOo~

 

She had only just buttered her slice of toast when Tom arrived at breakfast. Professor Dumbledore made his way serenely to the staff table and, when his attention became absorbed by the morning’s _Daily Prophet_ , their eyes met for the briefest moment. The meaning was clear, so after a couple of bites she left as casually as possible.

Thankfully, at this hour, the dungeon corridor was empty. She walked slowly, waiting in an alcove when the gazes of the paintings’ occupants started to become wary. After some time Tom’s footsteps approached and they continued together to the snake carving, his calm expression sliding away as soon as the wall closed behind them.

“ _Dumbledore_ ,” he hissed, and for the first time she almost felt afraid of him.

“W-what happened?”

“Him. Always _him_. How does he do it? _How_?” She knew better than to re-iterate her question, and instead settled for running along behind as he strode down the stairs. Strangely enough, his destination was the dining room. He sat down heavily on the wooden bench – she followed suit for lack of alternative. Tom’s moods frequently swung to extremes so it did not surprise her that, when he spoke again, it was with complete composure.

“I was halfway through the door when he came round the corner. I told him I was passing and heard a noise… he humoured me, but he didn’t believe it. And why would I even be passing? _Stupid_. Now he’s suspicious.” She was silent for a while, because that usually seemed to be the best way to handle this sort of situation.

“It was coincidence, I suppose,” she said eventually. “His office is right there. He doesn’t know anything, so all we have to do is avoid further suspicion.” Tom shrugged slightly, which she took as a form of agreement. “We just need a new plan to get you in there.” In the quiet that followed, the rumbling of her stomach seemed comically loud; realising it as an opportunity to further placate Tom, she rummaged in her bag for a pair of familiarly-shaped boxes.

“Where did you get those?”

“They’ve stopped making them for a while, apparently,” she said, trying to keep her smugness under control. “Because of the sugar rationing. I heard Parkinson telling the boys about it at dinner. Her darling Daddy sent her a whole crate in the post – took about a dozen owls to bring it in. I didn’t think she’d miss a few.”

Tom smiled, and it was very close to laughter; it was genuine, she thought, and therefore unusual. He swiped one of the boxes towards him across the table and then they both ate in silence.

_Gondoline Oliphant (1720 – 1799) was a Welsh witch famous for studying the lives and habits of several species of troll. Unfortunately she was clubbed to death by a group of mountain trolls whilst on a sketching trip to the Cotswolds in 1799._

She shivered slightly, and not because of the cold – she had never quite got over her dislike of trolls. In fact, it was because of that incident that she had begun frequenting Myrtle’s bathroom instead of the other one on the first floor. If it wasn’t for the occurrence of far worse events in her later teenage years, she’d probably still be having nightmares about it now. Why had Quirrell even thought it necessary? Surely he could have just gone down the trapdoor unnoticed whilst everyone else was at the feast.

Whilst everyone else was at the feast.

“I’ve got it!” He looked at her like she’d gone mad, but since that was quite normal, she ignored it. “Halloween. The whole school will be at the feast… no one will even notice if we aren’t there.”

“You’re not coming,” he said, after a while.

“I absolutely _am_. And besides, wouldn’t you prefer someone else to discover the basilisk first?” That was the end of the conversation; it was as much as needed to be said. Tom exhaled heavily through his nose in what she had come to take as a sign of defeat – or at least acquiescence – and stood up, pocketing his frog card.

“Let’s practice for duelling club,” he said, and, agreeing, she followed him into the main Chamber.

There were still several weeks until the thirty-first and they filled them by duelling and by getting to work cleaning and tidying the areas of the chamber that were currently accessible. It was Tom’s suggestion, and though he was always immaculately clean and tidy, she somehow found it odd. Perhaps it was the thought of Voldemort doing any sort of manual labour – Tom, however, was clearly no stranger to it. She supposed they had chores at the orphanage, and moreover he probably enjoyed making _her_ work, but she didn’t really mind. The time passed amiably enough, autumn settling over the Highlands, until Halloween was upon them and it was time to put the fledgling plan into action.

 

~oOo~

 

On the thirty-first they worked in the library until the dinner bell went, narrowly avoiding being ushered all the way to the feast by the librarian. With the help of several dead ends and alcoves, they managed to waste ten minutes making their way unseen down to the first floor, by which time the sound of chattering had faded into the distance. Even Peeves, who always materialised at the worst possible moment, was off creating mischief elsewhere. Hermione opened the bathroom door quickly, glanced inside, and ushered him through.

The snake was small but clearly visible, embossed into the metal of one tap where it had no obvious reason to be. It didn’t seem to be in the same style as the ones below, however, leading him to believe it was the work of a different person.

“Hurry,” she said in an elevated whisper, startling him from the examination of the plumbing.

“ _Open_.”

Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t that the entire floor would open up, requiring him to jump backwards away from the sink. Hermione came up next to him to peer over the edge, but there was only complete darkness below. The smell of stale water and slime filtered swiftly upwards and he grimaced.

“What do you think is down there?” she asked. Honestly, he was trying not to think about it. At best, it was filthy and wet. At worst, it was filthy and wet and contained a lethal monster. He calmed his expression.

“Well, you volunteered to go first. You can find out.” He thought she would probably protest, now that it came to it, but she just took a nervous glance at the bathroom door. Evidently the desire not to get caught was stronger.

“What if we can’t close it behind us?”

That was a good point. He hadn’t considered it, assuming firstly that the whole thing might be a false alarm or secondly that it would be a disappearing wall like the other entrance. The pipe looked deep – if it went all the way to the chamber, which would seem sensible, it had to descend more than two floors. They couldn’t risk having to leave it open.

“You go, then shout up. If you’re a long way away, I’ll seal it and go through the dungeons. They must join up somewhere. If not, I’ll come back here at eight to let you out.” She gulped, and this time he really expected a refusal.

“Impervius,” was all she said, tapping her wand on her robes. Then she sat down on the edge of the pipe.

“Tom Riddle… if you leave me down there to die, I swear I’ll come back and haunt you. I’ll be worse than Peeves.” Before he could point out that Peeves was a poltergeist and not a ghost she had lowered herself down and let go with a squeak. He couldn’t help but be a little bit impressed at her nerve.

There was nothing but a muffled thumping sound for some time, and he found himself glancing between the pipe and the bathroom door nervously.

“Hermione?” He leant over the opening to speak, not wanting to shout too loudly. After what felt like another minor age, he heard her voice faintly.

“Tom?” She sounded small and distant, the pipe or the water lending an odd resonance. He really didn’t fancy going down there – didn’t fancy the slime, or the basilisk, or the idea of not being able to seal it shut again.

“I’m going around,” he said, and then he replaced the sink without waiting for her reply.

He stayed away from the central staircase and entrance hall on the way down, but there was no option to avoid the main dungeon corridor in order to reach the snake carving. When he heard the approaching footsteps, there was absolutely nothing he could do. In the half second he had to consider it, he turned back around in the direction of the feast.

“Tom! You’re late, my boy – that’s not like you.”

It was Professor Slughorn. Slughorn, who was late for _everything_. Of course he would be late to the feast, still walking up the dungeon corridor at quarter past the hour. Why hadn’t he waited? Would there be an option to evade? He couldn’t think fast enough, and all the while they were advancing on the entrance hall. His mind was blank, only screaming at him to avoid suspicion.

“Sorry, Professor,” he said, “I haven’t been feeling very well today. I lost track of time.” His lie was shaky, poorly-executed, and wouldn’t have fooled Dumbledore for a second. Thank heavens it was only dim-witted, amiable Slughorn he had to convince.

“Oh, bad luck! Bad luck. Still – no harm done.”

“Actually, Sir, I thought I might go and see Nurse Jeffries.” The Professor took a sideways glance at him as they walked as if appraising his condition.

“Nonsense! Nurse Jeffries will be at the feast. Anyway, I often find a good dinner puts me right.” He patted the slight round of his stomach and Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes – he had never seen anyone eat as much as his Head of House.

They were crossing the entrance hall now. He was all out of ideas.

“Yes, Sir,” he said, defeated.

 

~oOo~

 

She felt a bolt of terror flash through her as the sound of the sink moving reverberated down the pipe. There was something primal, perhaps, about being trapped in the dark – and it _was_ dark. The air entering her lungs, chilly and full of damp, made the complete blackness somehow tangible. Shuddering, she waved her hand to produce a ball of light.

The tunnel was much as she remembered it, minus the evidence of the cave-in caused by Lockhart. No torches had been placed on the wall here, presumably because it was intended only for the basilisk. She took a deep breath and began to walk, thinking of how tremendously brave Harry had been to make this journey while the monster was still alive. When he was only twelve.

She pushed the thought down and told herself the familiar mantra; she was going to make a world where Harry would be safe and happy, with his family and friends, and only the Quidditch Cup to worry about.

The passageway was longer than she recalled – last time, they had probably been running. It was hard to remember now.

Finally she reached the entrance to the main chamber, and on this side, too, it was inconspicuous. Just bare metal. She realised that this was the first sign of Tom’s alternate timeline: it could only have been him that had made this door more obvious and ornate. He had a flair for the dramatic and the impressive, she was beginning to notice, just like his ancestor. Not surprising given what she knew of Voldemort in her own time.

There was no snake carving on the door; the metal was entirely plain. She touched it, gingerly, but nothing happened. No magic jumped under her fingertips. Examining it more closely, no hinges were visible either – had they been on the other side? She didn’t think so. Tom would have noticed _that_. She could form only one conclusion.

It wasn’t, in fact, a door at all.

Frustrated, she banged on the metal lightly – then harder. It didn’t give the slightest wobble or echo. How thick _was_ it? She didn’t fancy simply trying to blast it out of the way. Not when a simple backfiring memory charm had once caused a partial collapse of the tunnel. She banged even harder, wondering if Tom would hear and knock back, but stopped when her hands began to throb and ache.

It was cold even with a warming charm, and she couldn’t keep one up forever, especially when she was tired and hungry and also had to maintain the light source. So she jogged up and down the tunnel, looking for another passage or carving, and when she grew too tired to jog she walked. When she grew too tired to walk she cast a cushioning charm on the ground beside the metal not-door and sat down to think.

When eight o’clock came, she dragged herself back to the bottom of the pipe and waited.

The sink stayed firmly in place.

 

~oOo~

 

Dippet’s speech seemed to last forever, and then dinner dragged on and on, and then there was still pudding to sit through. Even though he was never part of the other students’ conversation, he liked to eavesdrop because knowledge was power, after all – but tonight he barely heard the chatter. Eight o’clock came and went, and he felt for the first time ever a flicker of guilt. Where was Hermione? Had she found the basilisk? Was she still alive?

He noticed that, though he had contemplated her murder barely weeks ago, he found the thought of her death… unpleasant. It was probably because she had been so helpful with the cleaning and organising of the Chamber – it would have taken him twice as long on his own. And she had found another entrance, in a place he might never have visited.

While he lied frequently, and almost as a hobby, it was somehow annoying that Hermione would think he had lied about coming back to let her out. But he wouldn’t be able to do it tonight, at all: he would be escorted back to his room, and locked in, and even if he _could_ get out he couldn’t possibly afford the risk of getting caught. She would just have to stay there until first thing in the morning.

“Hey, Tommy, where’s your _girlfriend?_ ”

What if the only way out was back up the pipe? He couldn’t very well wait until another feast to go back into the girls’ bathroom. But he really didn’t want to meet Dumbledore a second time… no. He would go into the dungeon entrance first. Maybe she had found a way through.

“Riddle? Riddle…! Look, Einar, I think he’s daydreaming about her!”

The chorus of cruel laughter jolted him out of his thoughts. Several faces, including Lestrange and Fudge, were staring at him.

“I said, _where’s your girlfriend_?” It was Malfoy that had been speaking, to the rapture of the gaggle of girls sat to either side of him. He blinked several times in a tremendous effort to keep calm and look unaffected.

“If you mean Granger, I’ve no idea.” Malfoy looked somewhat irked not to have got more of a rise out of him. After a small pause, the girl to his left – Yaxley – began to speak in a stage-whisper.

“Maybe she’s in the hospital with another of those mudblood diseases.” There was a scattering of chuckles, and Malfoy smirked.

“Perhaps. That’s what you get for associating with muggles… you’d know about that, eh, Tommy?”

His fingers fought the urge to tighten around the stem of the goblet he was holding and his eyes fought the urge to narrow. At that moment the remains of the dessert disappeared from the plates and everybody began to get to their feet.

“I’d watch it if I were you, _Malfoy_. One day, your father might not be around to save you.” He swept off to find Professor Slughorn before the shorter boy could make a response.

 

~oOo~

 

A minute passed, then ten, then an hour. The air seemed to become colder and damper until she felt that it had formed an icy lump in her chest. She couldn’t think what to do – try to get back up the pipe? Try to break into the main chamber? Sit and wait for Tom to return?

He must have got caught. It was the only explanation; though he was hardly trustworthy, she did not believe that he would really abandon her deliberately. She was too useful, and he wanted to know what was down here too much. But if Tom had got caught, he wouldn’t be able to return until morning, and even then it would be difficult for him to get into the girls’ bathroom.

After yet another brief jog up and down the tunnel she was worn out, and this time the cold was quicker to return. She sat down, curled into a ball to conserve warmth and allowed the light to dim. Not for the first time, she wished for a better plan. She’d had weeks to plan this! She’d known what was down here. Somehow she had imagined simply opening the metal door and that being that. It was a stark reminder of how easy it was for her to fail, even with all of her extra knowledge. How Salazar – the younger version, at least – would laugh if he knew. It was like the day Tom had killed her all over again.

Salazar.

Her hand jumped to the cat pendant, ever-present since the day he had gifted it to her. She would touch it often even now, always comforted to know it was there. Should she call him? Would he even come? Was it worth the derision she might receive?

She thought of how nice it would be to talk to him; of how little she wanted to spend the night down here freezing and alone… and she clasped the silver cat tightly.

“Salazar?” And then, in a smaller voice, just in case it only worked with the name he had originally given, “…Z-zorion?”

 

~oOo~

 


	34. Chapter XXXII: Wilfred Elphick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to those of you who have left kudos and comments. I'm not good at replying, but I really do appreciate it and it spurs me on to write faster!

~oOo~

 

_Wilfred Elphick (1112 – 1199) was gored by an African erumpent while travelling in the Okavango Delta in 1170. He is remembered as the first wizard to survive such an attack owing to timely use of a freezing charm, hence inventing the method by which Erumpent horns may be safely transported._

 

He put down the card, pulled the blankets up and turned over onto his side, trying to block out the headache that was pounding behind his eyes. It turned out that talking with erumpents for any length of time was really quite exhausting. Oh, they were pleasant enough, but so _loud_. He had always been accustomed to hissing, of course, and had adapted fine to neighing and hooting and all manner of other sounds, but the _bellowing_ was hard to take. Still. It was better than being sat at home all day, and the creatures really were in need of protection. For the first time in far too long he felt a minor sense of achievement.

“ _Salazar?_ ”

For a split second after he heard her voice in his head, he thought he’d finally cracked. Gone mad. Not enough that he saw her in every crowd and every time he closed his eyes; now he was haunted by the sound of his own name –

“… _Z-zorion?_ ”

He blinked, and in that instant, remembered – remembered a Christmas quite unlike any other, almost two years ago now, when he had befriended the object of his time-travelling machinations. Befriended her and given the only gift that he could think of, knowing that everything she really wanted was impossible to bestow.

She had kept it, then? What did that mean? Perhaps he was inferring something that had no reason to be inferred – probably she just saw the practical value in having a powerful friend –

She called him! Why was he still lying there? He jumped to his feet and threw on the shirt and trousers he had only recently vacated, the clock on the nightstand showing 9:51. Early, certainly, for him to have retired to bed – he still disliked Halloween – but late for her. Was something the matter? For a wild, hopeful second he imagined the reason for her summons being purely…. recreational. Then he gave himself a mental slap and took a deep breath before disapparating.

When he reappeared, the first thing he noticed was that he was not wearing any shoes or socks.

He noticed that particular fact firstly because he had landed on several small bones that were incredibly sharp, necessitating an ungraceful hop onto a bare piece of floor – and secondly because that bare piece of floor was approximately the temperature of an ice cube.

Once he had recovered his balance, if not his dignity, he glanced about. He was in some sort of damp, freezing tunnel. Turning around, he saw Hermione sitting huddled against the wall with her knees drawn up to her chest. She was staring at him with an expression he could not entirely decipher.

It was painful to look at her, so young and yet by this age unavoidably the person he was in love with – had taken to bed many times. A sort of nausea crept up on him, and he stamped it down with difficulty, reminding himself that she was not _actually_ a child. And he was not actually… that kind of person. Oh dear. How long had he been zoned out for? He should apologise. Unfortunately she chose exactly that moment to speak, too.

“Um, hello –”

“Sorry –”

There was a bashful pause in which neither wanted to run the risk of interrupting the other a second time.

“You _came_ –” she eventually blurted out, followed by, “I mean, erm, _thanks_ for coming. It’s – it’s… good to see you.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, because of _course_ he had come – he would go to any corner of the earth and beyond if she called – and not only had he promised as much, he _wanted_ to. But he didn’t know how to say that, so he just nodded dumbly instead. They stared at each other a bit longer, until he eventually began to take in the rest of his surroundings and imagine the sequence of events that might have caused her to be there, needing assistance.

“Um. Did I disturb you? I’m sorry, you’ll freeze –” He shook his head violently and finally managed to get some words together.

“No! No. It’s fine. I’d just, you know, gone to bed, so I got up in a hurry…” For the first time he looked down at himself: shirt creased and only half-buttoned, trousers bearing several grass stains and smears of Namibian mud. He grimaced. It wasn’t entirely how he would have wanted the object of his unreturned affection to see him, particularly after a period of absence. She was smiling now, though – was that a good sign?

“Where are we exactly?” She looked rather surprised by this question.

“In the Chamber… _oh_. Of course. Not the part that you built.” He looked around with new eyes, but could no better guess their geographical location than previously. Hermione was rummaging in her bag and retrieved what turned out to be a map. She stood up and unfolded it carefully. “This is the main chamber,” she said, pointing, “and this is the statue. Over here there’s a metal door, and that door opens out into this tunnel, except it’s _not_ a door in this time, and so I’m… stuck.”

He had to spend a moment digesting that information.

“So how did you get here?”

She gestured upwards.

“That pipe. It’s a sort of slide, hidden underneath one of the sinks in the girls’ bathroom on the first floor.”

_“What?”_ She smirked mischievously – it made his chest ache fondly.

“I think you mean ‘pardon’ – I know how important good manners are to you.” He laughed, properly, for the first time in weeks. “But, yes, one of your darling descendants made a new way in… or way _out_ , to be more accurate. It must join up somewhere, if that metal thing isn’t a door. But I can’t find anything.” As quickly as it had arrived, the laughter was gone. They were back onto precarious territory.

“Look…” he began, quietly. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what they did. I’m sorry for what they wanted to do. I never wanted those things. Please believe me.”

She gazed up at him with serious eyes – an expression too thoughtful, really, for her childlike face.

“I know,” she said, and then, after an intake of breath, “I’m sorry, too.” He could barely believe his ears.

“For – for what?”

“I was… angry. But that’s no excuse for saying the things I said, without knowing any of the facts. So, I’m sorry. It’s – you were – I mean… I understand it, now.”

He couldn’t find a single word in reply. It was like his brain had jammed, stuck on the idea that after everything that had happened, _she_ would be apologising to _him_. By the time he had stopped gaping, she had already turned away down the tunnel. He followed somewhat gingerly, avoiding the shards of bone that littered the way.

The tunnel came to an abrupt end at a wall inset with a large disc of metal – it must be a door, he thought, because _he_ hadn’t put it there, and it wasn’t exactly providing a decorative feature. He waved a hand across it, feeling for magic, and recognised the blood ward immediately.

“It will open for me, I think, but not for you.”

“Oh.” Her brow was furrowed in concentration. “Then I should leave it, because Tom will find out I couldn’t have done it on my own.”

“You’ve been here with him?” The stab of jealousy took him completely by surprise, especially when he considered that the source of it was a boy of only thirteen. She shot him a confused glance.

“Of course… I told you he was looking for it. He found the entrance on the second week back. I had to go along otherwise he’d be doing God-knows-what down here unsupervised.” He swallowed back his further questions.

“I could remove the ward afterwards. We can make it into a regular door that only opens from this side.” She appeared to consider this for a while.

“Yes, alright, good idea.” He got to work, hurried along by the sight of her shivering, and after a while they were standing in the main chamber, the door jammed open with a large rock.

“It’s – it must have been quite something, down here,” she said wistfully, looking around. “You know… apart from all the snakes. It’s not that I _mind_ them, but honestly, you could have varied the décor just a little bit.” He chuckled.

“The others never did like it. But I suppose it’s all just history now.”

They lapsed into silence, though not particularly an uncomfortable one. He tried to think of something to say to prolong his usefulness, lest she send him away again.

“I can’t open the dungeon entrance by myself, so I’ll have to sleep here tonight… thanks for letting me out of that tunnel, though.”

“You can’t stay here! It’s cold. Come home and I’ll return you in the morning.” He tried desperately not to sound like he was pleading.

“I’ve already dragged you out of bed – I don’t want to cause you any more trouble. It was my own fault I got stuck down here...” She was just trying to be polite, he hoped, rather than being keen to get rid of him. He extended his hand.

“Come on. Please.”

There was only the briefest hesitation before she placed her small fingers in his.

 

~oOo~

 

When they reappeared it was not at the front door, as she might have imagined, but in his bedroom. Her confusion must have shown, because he looked panicked and said quickly,

“Sorry. Sorry. I should have said. I just don’t really want… _him_ to know.”

“It’s fine. Um… do you mind if I use your bathroom?” He gestured her inside, and she smiled in thanks.

It wasn’t the first time she had been in that room, of course – she had used it daily for most of the summer – and yet it felt unfamiliar, though everything was exactly as it had been then. Perhaps it was because she was not used to seeing her fourteen-year-old face in this particular mirror.

She stared at herself for some time, lost in thought. In her ears she could feel the beating of her own heart, accelerated, as it had been ever since he had appeared in the tunnel.

What was it about _him_ that attracted her so strongly despite everything? She had promised herself that she would stay away, and keep focussed on her goals, but already her resolve had crumbled. His true appearance, so startling at first purely because she was used to something else, had already begun to feature in her dreams. That was even before he had come running to her side, looking like _that_. Evidently he had been embarrassed about it – he was usually very neat and tidy – so presumably he remained oblivious to the devastating effect it had on her.

She completed her nightly bathroom ritual as fully as possible given the lack of her own possessions, but had nothing to change into, so opted to emerge in a towel. He was sat on the edge of the bed staring anywhere but at her – something that happened every time she looked like a child, she realised. She decided to test that theory.

“Would you mind… changing me back?” He glanced up for a moment, face carefully expressionless.

“Certainly. If you’re sure.” She nodded, and then felt herself growing. And then they were staring at each other – really _looking_ – and she knew that her theory was correct.

And then she dropped the towel.

Their eyes remained locked for a moment, and then she saw his flick downwards – saw the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed hard – saw the tightening of his fingers on the edge of the bed.

“Do you… do you still want me?”

“What? Um. Pardon? Oh. _Yes_. Oh, _fuck_ , yes, of course. _Please_.”

She advanced, step by step, until she was standing between his legs – an inch or so taller than him in this position and in control. He made no movement as she unbuttoned his shirt, simply staring up at her with eyes now almost impossibly dark. His skin was warm under her fingers, his heartbeat strong, everything about the moment so alive. And then she kissed him.

It felt a little bit different to before, but that only added to the excitement: it had never been like this, she was sure, so desperate and raw. When his arms finally came around her, holding and stroking and pressing her so close, all thought ceased.

They kissed until they were gasping for breath and her lips were sore, and then he lowered his head to her breasts and she whimpered and arched into him, her fingers finding the waistband of his trousers. A single awkward moment while his clothing made its way to the floor was followed by falling onto the bed with every inch of skin pressed together – he tried to flip them over but she resisted, pinning him under her with a grin.

“I think I must be dre–”

His words trailed off into a kind of groan as she slid down his body and took the head of his erection into her mouth.

She was tentative – couldn’t possibly have been good at it, not really, having only tried it once before – but his noises gave her more than enough encouragement. When he gently guided her back up for more kisses, there was no doubt that it was because he was enjoying it too much rather than not enough.

“ _Please_ ,” he said, and the sound made her insides twist pleasantly.

“Please, what?” There was no confusion over what he was asking for, but she was in control, and if she wanted to hear him beg then he _would_ beg. His eyes locked onto hers; he could have been using legilimency but she couldn’t bring herself to care or look away. She sat up, waiting – his sly smile told her that he knew what for.

“Please, darling, have me – _fuck me_. I need you… I need to be inside you… Please, you’re so – so…” The adjective was lost as she raised herself up and began to slide down on him, not breaking eye contact.

“Don’t stop,” she instructed. His hands at her hips trembled, desperate to pull her down the last few inches onto him – she pushed them away, pinning them against the mattress. His smile only widened, his breathing quickening.

“So – perfect. I dream, I imagine you, but it’s not the s–” she took him in fully – “ _oh_. Oh, God, oh, yes, _yes_ …”

For a while she remained still, savouring the sensation. Her eyes, which had fallen closed, opened to find him still staring at her in wonder; it gave her a heady feeling.

“ _Salazar_ ,” she said. He raised an eyebrow – combined with the smile and swollen lips, it screamed sex.

“Yes?”

“Nothing… I was just trying it out.”

“Say it again.” She raised herself up, releasing his hands, which sprang back to her hips.

“ _Salazar_.” He pulled her back down onto him, hard, and the name was lost in the sound of their twin cries. This time there was no stopping; she moved over him, guided by his hands and by her own pleasure, the rhythm frantic.

“I – I’m so close, darling,” he gasped out after no more than a minute. “Please… slow down, I can’t...”

It was something of a relief, honestly – it was surprisingly hard work, and, as it turned out, the slower movement felt even better. He watched her as if she was the only thing in the whole universe, intently and reverently, running his fingers up and down her body as she rocked against him over and over.

“I’m – oh, I’m – _Salazar_ –” It was hard to breathe – impossible to _think_ , let alone _talk_ – and she cried out as the orgasm overtook her.

One deep breath, then another, and then she opened her eyes: his smile had become distinctly smug. She smirked and started to move again, rapidly, making him gasp in surprised pleasure.

She could think more clearly now – was better able to catalogue and interpret his touches and moans in order to find the speed and angle he preferred, and was rewarded with his increasing desperation. His expression was, for once, beautifully unguarded in ecstasy. She felt giddy with the power of it; raised herself up one last time.

“Come for me,” she whispered.

As she slid back onto him he obeyed with a whimper, clutching her tightly, and it was her turn to be smug as his body trembled beneath her, their gazes still locked. When the aftershocks had passed he pulled her down on top of him and kissed her until she was breathless all over again.

Eventually, when the position became uncomfortable, she disentangled herself and curled up facing him. The kisses continued, though more languidly now – it was as if he wanted to make up for lost time, which seemed like a good idea. She was so warm, and so happy, and so satisfied that it was hard to remember why she had ever tried to distance herself from him.

“I – I don’t think I understand,” he said eventually, then quickly added, “it’s not that I’m complaining, of course, but just… I thought you hated me.” Her initial reaction was surprise, but upon a few seconds of reflection she supposed that it was a reasonable conclusion to have drawn from her behaviour.

“No – _no_ … never hate. I was… I was hurt, and angry, and… stupid. I assumed I had the moral high ground, I suppose. It was wrong of me. And I’m sorry for it.”

He made no move to accept or even acknowledge her apology, in fact, like earlier in the Chamber, he seemed taken aback by it.

“I shouldn’t have lied to you.” She sighed.

“I don’t suppose you did – not really. You withheld information, certainly, but I suppose everyone does, to one degree or another. Perhaps it doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well...” she said, thinking carefully, “I’ll never know everything about you, will I? I’ll always feel comparatively stupid, and powerless, and I’ll never know what the future holds. Either because you won’t or can’t tell me, or because it’s uncertain. But… I like you, and you’re the only person who _knows_ me, and you make me feel safe and… happy. So perhaps everything else doesn’t matter.”

His expression was not blank, but neither was it readable. She thought there was something sad about it, but couldn’t determine what might have caused that. He opened and closed his mouth several times before he finally spoke.

“Anything you want to know, I’ll tell you. I promise that even if I can’t promise anything else. And you are not stupid or… powerless. If I’ve made you feel that way, the fault is mine.” She shook her head.

“Not fault. Just truth. Don’t you see? We will never be equal. You know so much – you’ve been everywhere – you can do just about anything! I’m nothing to you.” He made a sort of choked gasp.

“You’re _everything_ to me!” She blinked dumbly. What she’d actually meant to say was _I am nothing when compared with you_ , but her slip of the tongue had yielded an extraordinary reaction.

“I – um – sorry. Let’s not fight, I was only trying to say that… that I’d like to, you know, be with you, that’s all. However long it is that we have. Err – If you’ll have me.” He stared at her for some while and she got the feeling that he was testing out a variety of responses and rejecting them: it was slightly unnerving. In the end it was only one word, delivered with a quiet honesty, that she could hear echoing around in her head for a long time afterwards.

“Yes.”

 

~oOo~


	35. Chapter XXXIII: Hortensia Milliphutt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to those of you that have kudos'ed and reviewed. It's so nice to have some encouragement. (Constructive criticism is also good of course.)

~oOo~

 

When he opened the wall at just after seven the next morning, she was waiting directly on the other side. There was no anger in her expression and, even more strangely, not much annoyance or discomfort either.

“Who caught you?” was all she said. He considered her carefully.

“Slughorn. Late for the feast. How did you get through?”

“There’s a door we didn’t notice, in the main chamber. Only opens from the other side. We should get to breakfast.” He thought about arguing, but far too much suspicion had already been drawn, so he nodded reluctantly.

Just like that, everything was back to normal. There was no ‘ _you left me in there all night!’_ or ‘ _it was freezing!’_ or _‘you promised to let me out!’_ like he had imagined. They ate breakfast and suffered through all of the day’s lessons and met in the dungeons at five. Hermione led the way to a corner of the chamber he had been to only perhaps twice; a door was now wedged open with a stone.

How had he not seen it? It wasn’t like it was just a plain piece of wall. He examined it quickly – there were no hinges on this side. He had just taken it for some sort of... of what? Blanked-off pipe? It seemed unlikely, now that he thought about it. What else hadn’t he noticed even after all these weeks?

The tunnel behind the door was not constructed in the same style as the rest of the Chamber, leading him to conclude that it had been a more recent addition, utilising the modern plumbing. It did not appear to contain any other doorways.

“Did you find anything interesting in here?” They had reached a dead end, containing only the opening of the pipe disappearing upwards. He was glad he hadn’t had to come down it.

“No… but maybe you should look. Those snake things don’t seem to appear for me.” He smiled. In this respect, he was demonstrably superior to her, and it felt good.

They proceeded back down the tunnel, him running a hand along each wall and her vanishing bones and slime. He wasn’t honestly expecting to find anything – told himself he wasn’t disappointed when they reappeared in the main chamber uneventfully.

“I’m going to look around in here. You can carry on cleaning that tunnel.” She stared at him with narrowed eyes; he fully expected the retort.

“I’m not your _slave_ , Tom Riddle! I’ve been stuck here all night, and I’m tired. It would hardly kill you to at least ask nicely for once.”

He enjoyed making her angry – there was something inexplicably satisfying about it. Without missing a beat he switched into classroom persona.

“My apologies. I was just thinking of taking another look around in here. I do hope that you’ll be able to keep yourself amused.”

A shy smile – something he’d been working on recently – completed the little performance. She sighed heavily.

“You’re – you’re – _impossible_. Ugh. Yes. Fine. I actually preferred the rudeness.” He smirked and stalked off, hearing the metal door swing shut heavily behind her.

The huge stones blurred in and out of focus as he made his way around the perimeter, touching every piece of wall high and low until his back was aching and his fingers scraped raw: he was nothing if not thorough. No snakes appeared, though, and nor did anything else interesting occur.

He leant heavily against one of the pillars and looked around. The only thing of any mystery in the room was the stone bearing the tail-biting snake which did not seem to respond to Parseltongue. He crossed over to it again – touched it and spoke to it, just in case. Nothing happened.

He’d even looked the emblem up in the library in case it held a particular meaning for wizards. All he found was a brief mention in _Symbols of the Ancients_ which declared that _the ouroboros – or tail-eating serpent – signifies infinity or eternity, and is used particularly to represent the cycle of life and death._ So much, so obvious. But why was it there? He just couldn’t believe that it was merely a decoration.

It took him a long while of quiet contemplation to notice that the edge of the stone was slightly less smooth-fitting than the others around it, as if it had been taken out and carefully replaced. There was nowhere for fingers to grip, of course, so he stood back and drew his wand.

The stone slid out, inch by inch, with difficulty – it was evidently much heavier than the things he usually tried to move with magic. He made a mental note to train harder as the piece of masonry came crashing finally to the floor, sending slivers of stone flying. He sidestepped it casually and gazed into the opening.

In a hollow behind the removed stone stood a small urn and a propped-up piece of card, which he recognised with incredulity even before he reached in to retrieve it. In the distance the metal door scraped open and running feet rounded the corner. There was a second when he considered hiding the discovery from her, but there was no time; if he’d wanted to be covert he shouldn’t have smashed half the wall down, probably.

“What happened?!” She was slightly breathless, presumably having been near the far end of the tunnel. Her skirt had ridden up above the knee. He coughed involuntarily and turned back to face the hole in the wall.

“Stone was loose. Here.” He waved the card blindly behind him and she took it.

“Boudica… w-what? Was this in there?” She was staring over his shoulder now. He grabbed the urn before he had time to consider whether it might be cursed – luckily nothing seemed to happen. It was made from a sort of brown stone which was smooth and unmarked by paint or etching of any kind. The lid was stuck on, but the contents whispered softly inside like dry powder when he shook it.

“Is the card a – a sort of – _headstone_?” He frowned. None of it made any sense.

“I think that’s the wrong question.”

“What’s the right one, then?”

He wasn’t sure why he was talking about this. He didn’t like to share theories, but… it was pleasant to have someone to show off to.

“When did they start making chocolate frogs?” Their eyes met for a second – he saw that she understood his point.

“Erm… well, I suppose, a hundred years ago, at the very most –”

“ _No_ ,” he interjected. “Well, maybe, but not like this. The old ones, they were duller –” he took it from her grasp and turned it over and over – “this purple was sort of blue, and the writing was different.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, come on, even you must have noticed. The ones we had on the train were old – probably been on the trolley since July – and the ones you stole from Parkinson are new. They must have changed sometime since the summer.”

“So – so you think someone else has been here?”

“Well, do you see another explanation? It shouldn’t be hard to narrow down the date, but it’s not really important. I need to think.”

“What if –”

“I said _I need to think_!” She blinked dumbly, but mercifully shut up. Not another word was exchanged, even as they left the Chamber and walked to dinner. He hadn’t realised how much he had become accustomed to her chattering, one-sided though it often was.

When he got back to his room that evening he searched around for the card that he knew he’d kept although he had no explanation as to exactly why.

_Hortensia Milliphutt (1792 – 1904) became Minister for Magic in 1841 and won a second term owing to her speedy introduction of many popular pieces of legislation. Unfortunately, she went on to pass so many useless laws – most famously on hat pointiness – that she was ousted from office in 1849._

He laid it down on his bedside table next to the one depicting Boudica. They were the same size and shape, the same colour – the same font. Both equally unremarkable.

Except one _was_ remarkable. Because one meant that someone had been in the chamber, _his_ chamber, and barely months ago. Confusion, anger and curiosity warred to be the dominant emotion; he wanted so desperately to understand, but was at a complete loss.

Still, it was something to focus on. He _would_ find out what – or _who_ – was in that urn, and who put it there, because there was no puzzle that had ever beaten him.

 

~oOo~

 

Autumn became winter and Hogwarts’ deputy Headmaster did not become any less busy: the Wizengamot was still in emergency session. Reports broke in early December that the Danish Ministry of Magic had fallen to Grindelwald’s control, just as the muggle government had previously surrendered to the Germans. The _Prophet_ went into overdrive, but to Albus it was merely another in a growing line of quiet, political victories, and he had long since accepted Death’s viewpoint that politicians and their legislation would never be able to stop it.

The timing was perfect for Gellert now. He had been patient for so many years, as one war and then another plunged Europe into disarray. Hungary, Yugoslavia and Bulgaria were the spoils of the first – a control that lasted even as boundaries and alliances were redrawn – and few in Britain took any notice. Who had time to worry about who was in charge in a few eastern countries? There were bigger issues.

In the two decades following the conflict the charismatic young leader grew ever more popular in his heartland, even as the cells of Nurmengard began to fill. He bided his time, learning and recruiting and infiltrating abroad. He charmed and courted. It was a silent revolution, fought in minds and hearts rather than in duels, and as muggle war threatened for a second time, the seeds that had been sown began to sprout.

Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland – and now Denmark. These were the rewards for Gellert’s patience, as wizards everywhere began to fear the sound of guns and bombs and tanks, and began to say to themselves, _why do we put up with this? There must be another way._

His opponents were weakening, now – the Belgian and Dutch Ministries in exile, the French scattered, and here at home the Wizengamot was crippled with panic and infighting. He had now lost count of the number of times he had heard the conversation that began with _at least Grindelwald would protect us from the muggles._

Was it, in a sense, true? He felt terrible for even thinking it, but couldn’t deny the niggling doubt that Gellert had the right idea, as he had once believed. Muggles were proving yet again that they were their own worst enemy. He had taken to wandering through London after each trip to the Ministry, noticing which buildings no longer stood. He had gone down into the underground one night and listened to the dulled sound of explosions overhead and seen the mothers clutching their children tightly. Was this what freedom looked like? Was this what he was going to fight Gellert in order to preserve?

Gellert was a man of great intelligence, power and charm, with a towering ambition to match. He could be violent, and attracted to magic of questionable morality, but he was not senselessly cruel. He did not appear to derive pleasure from the pain of others. There had certainly been far worse dictators in the past.

But there it was.

He was a dictator. He might have condescended to share power with Albus – or he might not have, it was hard to say – but he was never going to make decisions by committee. He was never going to consider an opinion voiced by anyone he did not respect, which was essentially everyone. He was never going to delegate. He solved disputes with death or incarceration, without trial.

And, more worryingly, he intended to live forever. To what length was he prepared to go for that end? This, in essence, was something that was potentially more worrying than the genial lording-over of muggles. So worrying that Death himself had asked _him_ to step in.

He was over halfway through the letters now – number forty-six up next – and definitely more able to think about the task at hand without becoming debilitated by emotion. It was working, and just as well, because he could not put it off forever.

 

_Albus –_

_I hope that you have spoken with your brother as we planned. He simply has to be told that there is no other option! Frankly I think you are far too soft with him, but I shall not press that opinion again. Anyway, the sooner he accepts the situation, the better. He ought to be grateful! It’s hardly as if he will make anything of his life staying here – in fact, he seems to be entirely lacking in ambition as well as mental capacity. It stuns me to think that the three of you are of the same parentage._

_On another note, I have discovered a rather interesting scrap of parchment tucked into the back of one of Aunt’s old history books. It seems to be part of a Peverell family tree, though disappointingly incomplete and in places illegible. I will keep searching in case the rest is elsewhere, but either way I think another trip to the Records Office may be in order. There are several new names to investigate – I will come around first thing in the morning._

_In the meantime, I’ll be thinking about what you did in the orchard earlier… you continue to surprise me! I think perhaps I’d enjoy a reprisal at the Ministry tomorrow._

_G._

As a member of the Wizengamot, and as Hogwarts’ Deputy Headmaster, Albus had found himself visiting the Ministry’s Records Office on many occasions over the years. He still found it difficult. Why hadn’t they had a reorganise or at least a redecorate in all that time? As it was, he could barely look at filing cabinet 17-P.

_He was pushed from behind, gently but firmly, causing him to drop the piece of parchment he had been holding and stagger forwards against the filing cabinet – the drawer he had been skimming through slid shut with a smooth click under his outstretched fingers. Warm breath raised the hairs on the back of his neck._

_“It was cruel of you to tease me yesterday, Albus. We’ll see how you like it now.”_

_“Someone will see us!” His voice, though it was only a whisper, seemed to echo through the quiet space. He could clearly feel Gellert’s hardness rubbing against him even through all the layers of fabric; his own cock twitched in response._

_“The nearest person is three aisles away, and almost blind,” he said, factually, not breaking the rhythm. Albus tried to tear his eyes away from the sight of Gellert’s long fingers trapping his own hands against the cool metal, partly obscuring the lettering that read_ 17-P: BIRTH RECORDS _._

_“Someone will_ hear _us, then!”_

_“So be_ quiet _!” There was something about Gellert’s way of speaking that inspired instant compliance: Albus shut his mouth, silent even as one of the long-fingered hands reached down to stroke the length of his erection. He bucked helplessly, but the hand had already withdrawn._

_There was no use panicking about being seen; he was utterly trapped and could do nothing about it, a fact that became apparent when he tried to move his arms. They were stuck in position on the filing cabinet, and his attempts to free them – both magically and otherwise – were met with a dark chuckle._

_“Going somewhere, Albus?” It was spoken directly into his ear, and yet so low as to be almost inaudible. The hand was back on his cock and he was aching, now, the fear of discovery heightening every sensation._

_“P-please…”_

_“Already? You must be joking. I’ve barely begun.” And he wasn’t lying._

_It ended in spectacular orgasm mere seconds before an elderly witch rounded the corner, and he was so jealous of the way that those seconds were enough for Gellert to straighten his clothes, pick up the dropped sheet of parchment and say, “Ah, here it is,” with a degree of disaffectedness usually reserved for narrating the dates of the Goblin Wars. He managed to remove himself from the filing cabinet with some difficulty, the elderly witch glancing at him oddly as she passed._

_His heart was hammering with adrenaline and lust: he could barely think. When they were again alone in the aisle, he saw the wild mischief in Gellert’s eyes and wanted desperately to kiss him. He didn’t._

That was the first time he considered whether he was in love: then, as ever after, he kept it to himself. It was clear, even at his most affectionate, that the other boy did not feel the same. In the years that followed, Albus had often wondered whether Gellert had ever loved anyone. It would be at odds, somehow, to the joyful hedonism he exuded.

He put down the letter with a sigh and got to his feet. Outside, fine droplets of rain pounded into the diamond windowpanes like so many nails, thick cloud hiding the stars. Was it raining in Denmark tonight? Did Gellert ever look for the moon and wonder if their gazes met on its faraway surface?

No, obviously not.

Because Gellert was not a sentimental idiot, paralysed by the forty-year-old ghost of a love that was never even returned.

He would put the box away now, and try to participate in the Christmas holidays like a functioning human being, and come back to it in the New Year. By then, perhaps he would be ready to face the final and most painful memories.

 

~oOo~


	36. Chapter XXXIV: Falco Aesalon (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was a bit slow in the making. Incidentally, it's quite weird writing Christmas stuff in October! I may well have mentioned several things that readers in the USA don't have - mince pies, anyone?! (If you've never tried them, you should make some this Christmas :) ) In the UK on Christmas Eve children leave out a mince pie for Father Christmas and a carrot for Rudolph, and maybe some sherry or brandy too. So the big guy's had about 20 million pies and shots of alcohol by the time he's done delivering presents to our little island. On another note, thanks to those of you that have continued to comment.

~oOo~

 

The argument went something like this:

"Why didn't you _do_ something?!"

"Like _what_?!"

"Like distract him! Or hide it!"

"How could I have done – I didn't even know he was looking at it!"

"Well – well – you could have _told me_!"

"There wasn't any time, for God's sake – I _did_ tell you as soon as I could!"

"Couldn't you have–"

"No! For the last time! If you didn't want him to bloody find it, perhaps you shouldn't have put it there – or at least not under an enticing bloody pictogram! What did you _think_ was going to happen?!"

He had been defeated then, shoulders slumped, and after several minutes of morose silence muttered something that might have been "I know," and "sorry." The whole situation was really quite funny.

"Look," she said, after some more time had snuck grumpily past. "It's going to be fine. He can't possibly suspect _you_ – or me, for that matter – so it's just going to be one of those inexplicable things. He'll drop it sooner or later." Salazar looked rather doubtful but stopped short of actually contradicting her. "Besides… there's nothing you can do about it now, at least not without making it even worse."

"I suppose you're right," he said, eventually.

"Obviously. So I think you owe me an apology."

The apology lasted significantly and blissfully longer than the argument and the issue itself was put, for the time being, out of mind.

November and December marched along with a pleasant lack of apocalyptic events. During the day she spent time mostly with Tom, in lessons and in visiting the Chamber and in duelling club, and after curfew Salazar would come to bring her home with him. For the first time in years she felt a sense of equilibrium that, on occasion, came very close to happiness – especially when the Christmas holidays arrived, taking with them all of her most irritating fellow students.

It was busier in the castle this year. Many muggle families and even a handful of magical ones had elected to keep their children at Hogwarts, safely away from the bombs which were falling thicker than ever. There was plenty of food here, too, even if it were a far cry from the lavish feasts laid on just two years previously.

On Christmas Eve, Salazar brought her from her Hogwarts bedroom directly into the cherry tree garden despite the lateness of the hour. The tree itself, bare of leaves, had been covered with hundreds of tiny coloured lanterns and a blanket had been spread out on the ground underneath. Though the air should have been almost frozen she was not shivering despite having no coat. Nifty arrived, presently, bearing a tray with two cups of tea – a regular evening tradition, now. He was wearing an overlarge woolly hat adorned with miniature bells and the edge of his apron had been trimmed with a rather garish piece of pink tinsel. Twin silver baubles swung violently from his always-animated ears. She fought valiantly to keep a straight face and accepted the cup and saucer gratefully.

"You're looking very festive today, Nifty." The elf gave a small squeak which she had come over time to interpret as a sort of pleased agreement, and disapparated. _Strange_ , she thought, since he usually chatted away almost indefinitely. She turned to Salazar, who was having less success containing his amusement.

"What's going on with –" she began, but trailed off because the recipient of her question was looking not at _her_ but instead quite definitely at a point over her right shoulder. She turned around slowly, just as a chorus of popping sounds filled the air.

On a newly-constructed raised platform at one end of the garden appeared all seventeen of the household's elves, each clutching a small piece of paper. All seventeen aprons were beautifully smart and tinsel-trimmed in various colours – thirty-four baubles glinted madly from thirty-four ears, knocking frequently into their neighbours with a bright sound. Her mouth dropped open of its own accord and her eyes found Nifty towards the centre of the line. He was beaming proudly, and pointed at the letter N monogrammed on his apron. For a moment she was confused, but looking along the row it became clear that they had arranged themselves, not by age or rank, but alphabetically from Annie all the way to Wonky. A small scuffle ensued while Tabby ushered Sooty – the youngest elflet – onto her correct side, glanced at his piece of paper, and turned it the right way up somewhat sheepishly. Before Hermione could form any words there were seventeen intakes of breath.

_"Hark! The many house-elves sing, a-bout all the festive things!_

_Mistletoe and warm mince pies, elves and wizards side-by-side!_

_Joy-ful-ly we all did bake, a very tasty Christmas cake –_

_then, we helped to write this song, that we'll sing all Yule-tide long!_

_Hark! The many house-elves sing, a-bout all the festive things!"_

Salazar's hand at the small of her back guided her towards the blanket and she sat down dumbly without taking her eyes from the spectacle. The harmony might have been best described as _informal_ and the lyrics ranged from the humorous to the downright nonsensical, but the enthusiasm of the little creatures was completely infectious. When they had reached the end of the last verse of _Hark the Many House Elves Sing_ , she had barely begun to clap before they launched into _We Three Elves_ , and on from there into _God Rest Ye Miss Hermione_ and then – after seventeen sheets of paper were flipped noisily over to the other side – the particularly rousing _Twelve Days of Elfmas_. The performance was rounded off with easily the most joyful and least tuneful version of _Jingle Bells_ she had ever heard.

"That was – that was – wonderful!" she said, finally, once all the clapping and squeaking and bowing had petered out. "I loved it!" Secretly, she was getting quite a headache, and was slightly worried that the 'Twelve Days of Elfmas' might be rattling around her mind forever, but it was hard to care.

"Right," said Salazar, getting to his feet. Though his tone was far from authoritative, all seventeen elves instantly stopped dead and turned to face him. "Is everybody ready for today's present?" There was a general commotion consisting of various hushed whispers and several feet hopping up and down. Suddenly, a large portion of the garden wall opened up to provide an exit into the meadow beyond. In the space directly behind the wall sat a huge sleigh, and hitched up to the sleigh were four pairs of thestrals. The whole ensemble was decorated with hundreds more of the little coloured lanterns.

The elves wasted absolutely no time before surging forwards. She was temporarily rooted to the spot, struck speechless. _On the first day of Elfmas, my master gave to me: a sleigh ride over the trees._

"Did you, well, I mean, did _you_ write those new words?" Salazar coughed awkwardly.

"Well… erm… yes, I suppose so… if you can call it that. They couldn't do it, you see – couldn't think of twelve presents. We've never – you know – never celebrated Christmas before. So I thought I'd try and make it… memorable." The elves were bouncing joyfully on the sleigh's upholstery and jiggling the reins, causing the thestrals to snort in irritation. They made their way over quickly before the situation could deteriorate. Salazar helped her climb in and the elves made just enough room: soon enough the thestrals were easing into a trot and then a canter.

It was bumpy, but not nearly as bumpy as it should have been; there was no snow on the ground, so large amounts of magic were evidently involved in their movement. After running the length of the meadow the thestrals jumped into the air, leathery wings beating strongly. She swallowed back a scream with difficulty and tried to focus on Salazar's arm which was wrapped securely around her shoulders. After what seemed like an age, the sleigh levelled out and the motion became much smoother.

The younger elves clamoured to get closer to the edge, peering over excitedly, while the older ones remained in a more dignified position on the seats. When she could face it, she looked down.

The trees in the thestrals' woodland were spread out perhaps thirty metres below and she saw that the top of each had been decorated with yet more lanterns. The bare branches allowed a view through to the ground beneath – she could spot the thestrals' shelter and the stream winding along lazily, reflecting the many coloured lights. They made a circle, and then the house and courtyards came into view all illuminated. Elsewhere was dark, the moon in the last quarter and behind a haze of cloud. The elves' chatter had died down as they all stared in wonder.

"For someone who's never done Christmas, you've made a pretty good job of it," she said quietly. There was no reply for a long time.

"Do you like it?"

"Of course. _Of course_ I do – it's – it's lovely. You must have gone to so much trouble."

"Oh," he said, vaguely, "they did most of it. I couldn't take the credit." It was so clearly a lie that she almost protested, but instead simply leaned in closer and felt his hand tighten slightly on her shoulder. Soon enough the sleigh began to descend once more.

There were mince pies, after they arrived back on the ground, and mulled wine too – she wondered where the ingredients had come from, but supposed restrictions on international trade and movement did not quite apply to this particular household. It brought back strong memories of home, of Christmases before the war; way back, in fact, to before she had even heard the word 'Hogwarts'.

She had not seen her parents for three years; long enough for many details of their lives and habits to have faded from mind until the strangest things brought them back to the surface. It should have been sad – still frequently reduced her to tears – but tonight she was able to push those feelings down a little. Perhaps because of the sleigh ride, or perhaps because of the wine, the elves were in even better spirits than she had ever witnessed, and it was easy to be swept along in the good cheer.

It was probably for the best that the wine ran out after everybody's second glass. Salazar took that as the cue to suggest bedtime. Seventeen pairs of feet trotted – and in some cases, weaved and wobbled – their way back into the house and peace finally fell in the garden. She stepped into his embrace and appreciated the warmth as the temperature of the air had definitely started to drop.

"Is it our bedtime, too?" He smiled and kissed her softly.

"I haven't given you your present yet."

"There's _more_?"

"Well… yes, and no."

" _'Yes and no'_?" They sat back down on the blanket and he renewed the warming charms.

"I couldn't think of anything. Not a single thing. I'm… I'm not good at this. I know there's nothing I can do to give you what would truly make you happy. And I've been thinking a lot about something you said… that I can do just about anything. So I thought I would show you how wrong you are."

"So you got me nothing, to prove you're terrible at presents?" She chuckled, not following.

"What? No! No. Well. Sort of, I suppose." He paused for a minute, smiling into the distance. "I will give to you the knowledge that you are capable of something – something magical – that I never was."

"Whatever might that be?"

"I told you the story of Cliodna, I think."

"Yes… she was killed, by a muggle." A shadow crossed his face, briefly, and then was gone.

"Indeed. Although that's not what I'd want her to be remembered for. She was a natural Animagus. Quite extraordinary."

"She could change into a seabird. It's on her frog card, I think."

"Not just one. Gulls, petrels… the guillemot, the albatross." He was still looking into the distance, watching, she imagined, the dance of those birds on the tenth-century Irish breeze.

"I've had a dozen books out of the library, and everyone agrees that there can only be one form."

"It's been fashionable for several hundred years to try and put limits on magic, you know. To make sense of it. Ever since the rise of muggle science. But magic is... well, it's… _magic_ , isn't it?" She fell to thinking for a while. It was the kind of conversation that they often arrived at, sparse and yet companionable.

"I suppose when you believe there is a limit on something, you don't try it. It's sort of self-fulfilling."

"Yes. _Yes_. That's exactly it. People don't try anymore. In the past, everyone experimented, everyone found their strengths. Even though there was no real education." He laughed briefly. "I suppose you could say that I did my part to be responsible for the problem." She smiled.

"So, anyway, why are you bringing this up?"

"Right. Yes. Shapeshifting. Something I could never do."

"Really?"

"No. Not… then, and not now. I don't know why."

"But you can speak with the thestrals. And snakes, of course."

"Curious, isn't it? I was born a Parseltongue – that was no achievement. Every other creature's language I only acquired as Death. It's necessary for the job, you see." She wasn't sure she _did_ see, but it didn't seem like the key line of enquiry.

"I don't understand your logic. I can't do it either."

"Ah, correction: you have not _yet_ done it. It's going to happen. Tonight."

"H-how?"

"How should I know?" he asked, genially. "You're the one with the ability. You just need the confidence. It's dangerous to attempt for the first time without company, and I think – I _think_ – that I can help you with the focus. If you'll let me. It's a guess, really, based on the theory of it, which is quite shaky, actually, because –"

"You're rambling," she cut in, incredulously.

"Yes. Sorry. Sorry." He looked so oddly nervous that she leant over to kiss him. It was some minutes later – when they had fallen down onto the blanket and several buttons of his shirt had somehow come undone – when she remembered the conversation they had been in the middle of.

"How will you help me, then?"

"Um – I –" he blinked several times and looked across at her longingly. "Weren't you wanting to go to bed?"

"Nice try! No, you've convinced me we should give it a go." He groaned, and eventually struggled to sit up and re-button the shirt.

"You'll need to let me into your mind," he said, several deep breaths later. She tried hard to keep her expression blank: was this some elaborate pretence? Would it really help? Then again, if he had a mind to, he could probably see her thoughts any time he chose. She had already accepted that risk in being with him at all. Besides, he was really the only person from whom she had no significant secrets.

"Al-alright." He stroked her cheek, once, briefly – placed a single kiss there.

"I wouldn't do it. Without your permission. I promise. But in this instance I don't aim to view your memories – just hold your concentration." She grimaced, contrite. Of course he saw her doubts. She was terrible at hiding anything, even after so much practice. Their eyes met.

"Go ahead."

"I need you to begin the meditation, without my interference. Close your eyes. When you're ready, open them again."

It was easy to slip into the familiar channels of thought, now, though it had been hugely tiring upon her initial attempts. He was right, really – she had known for a while that she was ready. Couldn't explain exactly what had been holding her back except her own natural conservatism.

When she opened her eyes, he was in her mind immediately. It was… acutely intimate, and yet not at all unpleasant: calming, almost. Then, thoughts and images not her own began to surface – her natural reaction to shut them out was repelled, her focus being held firm until she stopped struggling.

Something changed as soon as her attention shifted onto the new images. It was so startling that, again, her focus would have slipped without his aid. Then he was gone from her mind, and she saw his smile beam out.

"I knew you could do it!"

 

~oOo~

 

Christmas Day saw a reasonable amount of snowfall, much to the delight of the children who were remaining in Scotland for the holidays. In the staffroom, too, the mood lightened from discussions of war and rationing: a Gryffindor – Hufflepuff snowball fight on the lawn below the window drew everybody's attention. His smile at Hufflepuff's eventual loss was only partly forced.

There was no all-evening drinking this year; stocks of everything were rapidly running out. Once the last of the gifts had been exchanged, and after a disappointingly weak cup of tea, he gave his final regards of the season and retired to his private rooms.

This year's haul habitually included various sweet treats, though the customary bottle of brandy from the Headmaster was sadly absent. Several books (two he had no desire to read and three he already possessed) completed the predictable lineup. It was his own fault, of course – if he had normal interests, or ever engaged in meaningful socialising with the others, maybe they would have a hope of purchasing him something he actually wanted or needed. He should probably suggest socks. Socks were always useful.

He sat down heavily in an armchair, feeling every one of his fifty-nine years, and reached for the chocolate frog: everyone had received one from the Headmaster in place of the usual alcohol, to varying amounts of distaste. Well, it certainly wasn't brandy, but he appreciated the whimsical sentiment all the same. Confectionary was terribly scarce these days.

_Falco Aesalon (c. 1_ _st_ _century BC) was an Athenian wizard remembered for being the first known Animagus. He could transform into a small species of falcon, which was later named after him. Interestingly the bird was also the animal form of Merlin, from whom it obtained its common name._

The night outside the window was silent in a way that only snow can manage, a steady procession of flakes still falling. He felt the urge to be a part of it, suddenly, the picture of Falco (constantly changing from man to bird and back again, just to show off) making him long for the free air. He left his rooms again and passed silently through the darkened corridors and up the empty staircases, lost in thought. They'd probably put _him_ on one of those cards after he confronted Gellert. He could picture it now:

_Albus Dumbledore (1881 – 1941) was the Deputy Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry when he was killed in a duel with magical supremacist Grindelwald. Dumbledore, a notorious eccentric, apparently believed that he could dismantle Grindelwald's regime single-handed._

He barely dared to imagine the alternative:

_Albus Dumbledore (1881 –), the Deputy Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, became widely famous for his defeat of magical supremacist Grindelwald in 1941, ending a decades-long oppressive regime that had enveloped much of continental Europe._

That level of praise would be far more than he deserved, of course, since he was half responsible for the whole thing in the first place. He had reached his destination now: the top of the Astronomy tower. The wind was strong and bitterly cold on the exposed top so he transformed quickly. How would his honest biography read, if it were reduced to so few words?

_Albus Dumbledore (1881 –), despite showing plenty of early promise, has achieved very little in life except contributing to the murder of his innocent sister, aiding the takeover of Europe by a magical supremacist, and enacting a giant cover up so that nobody knows about either of the first two things._

He dropped over the parapet and considered briefly – during his descent past the seventh, sixth and fifth floors – whether it might be for the best if he were never to pull out of the dive.

 

~oOo~


	37. Chapter XXXV: Falco Aesalon (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm back. Is anyone still out there? I'm really sorry about the delay, and I'm afraid I can't make any promises about my subsequent update speed either. BUT. I will get there! Maybe some of you will even still be reading when I do! 
> 
> Thanks so much to those of you who commented while I was AWOL. It helped a lot.

~oOo~

 

John Granger – rear gunner on a Mark 1C Vickers Wellington bomber – died several thousand feet above Mannheim, Germany on the seventeenth of December. England had been veiled in cloud but somewhere over Holland it had cleared completely, revealing the moon only two days beyond full. A perfect night for spotting the enemy, he thought, as searchlights and then anti-aircraft fire began to erupt to the left and right. He never even heard the explosion that sent shrapnel tearing through the cramped turret. John, perhaps, was the lucky one: dead before the plane could complete its crippled descent into the unforgiving earth below.

Death gathered all six souls moments later and sent them onward. There was no considering the mothers and fathers or the wives and children left behind; death, to Death, was merely incidental. Perhaps this particular fate was crueller than many, or perhaps it wasn’t, but Death didn’t ponder it. The men and the circumstances were unique, certainly – but so were all the others. Death had no time for names or faces. He transported John Granger without even realising the significance.

The significance was, of course, completely unknown to the unfortunate soul himself. In fact, even if he had known, he would have struggled immediately to care. That is the nature of dying. People tend to find it overwhelming.

After some time John’s panic began to ease, allowing him to notice that he was inhabiting one of the chairs in the corridor outside the Flight Lieutenant’s office. For a wild, triumphant second he thought the whole sortie had been a bad dream and that the panelled door would open any minute to admit him. It didn’t; in fact, he couldn’t even imagine a reason why he would need to be there. He looked around more fully, trying to ignore the fact of his missing body. The corridor was long, stretching perhaps thirty yards in either direction before it became curiously blurred. The pattern on the carpet, too, seemed to squirm when he tried to look at it directly. The silence was eerily absolute.

He had been in the plane. That much was for certain. He remembered the takeoff and then crossing the sea in cloud, the turret growing ever colder. He had seen the shimmer of the Rhine in the moonlight and the shadowy forms of the other bombers to either side. He remembered thinking he would have a good chance to see his targets. He remembered the horribly distinctive sound of the flak guns. Yes… he was definitely dead, yet... here he was.

Slowly, and apparently of its own accord, the office door opened, throwing a slice of gentle sunlight into the corridor. He knew with absolute certainty that there were no windows in the Flight Lieutenant’s office, but he refused to be afraid. He left the chair – hesitated just barely – and crossed the threshold.

The room he found himself in was, to all intents and purposes... a classroom? Rows of chairs faced a blackboard, on which the word WELCOME was written in bold lettering. Beneath the rather surprising heading, the words please take a seat were added as an afterthought. He sat down in bewildered acquiescence, which was when he noticed his body was back. He jabbed himself sharply in shock and stifled an expletive when it did, indeed, hurt.

The door, having shut behind him, opened again to admit Charlie, the Wellington’s navigator. He was wearing his flight suit and a shell-shocked expression. They stared at each other mutely as the door opened again and again to admit more frightened people; their fellow crew, but other men and women too, both old and young. After a while a distant bell sounded and the door simply vanished. At the opposite end of the room, next to the blackboard, an archway appeared in the solid wall. Through the archway entered a woman.

The woman in question, whose black hair fell loose well past her shoulders, was of indeterminate age but great elegance. She wore a deep blue embroidered robe quite unlike anything he’d ever seen anyone wearing before. When she spoke it was with a bored sort of authority, her accent slightly strange although he couldn't have said exactly why.

“Welcome to the other side,” she said, glancing briefly around the group of perhaps two dozen faces. Though she was not particularly tall, her presence had a command which he felt was not entirely due to the discomforting nature of the situation. “Do sit. I’ve got several things I’m supposed to run through before I let you in. Current policy, you see. To ensure a smooth transition.” The people who were not yet seated sat down as if compelled by an unseen force, which perhaps they were. The woman sighed.

“My name is Rowena, and I shall be your mentor for your first day. You’ll soon get used to everything, but I understand that it’s very daunting at the moment.” There was a slight softening of her regal expression, which was perhaps intended to be soothing. “All of you here were British, and you died between –” she glanced at a clock that had appeared in the middle of the blackboard – “ten past one and twenty past one, on the morning of the seventeenth of December.” An outbreak of sobs and gasps accompanied the word ‘died’, but Rowena resolutely ignored them.

“This is a moment of great sadness for you, of course, but please be assured that every soul must pass this way in time. There are always reunions here.” From somewhere inside her robe she produced a scroll of heavy paper and a long feather. “What I’m going to do first is take your names. It will be much friendlier once we know what to call each other.” John wasn’t feeling very sociable, and judging by the sobs still rippling through the room, neither was anybody else. When it was his turn to answer, it was hard to find a voice. The silence afterwards caused him to believe that he had gone unheard.

“John –” he began to repeat.

“Yes, I heard,” snapped Rowena. He blinked in confusion and the silence continued. To his left, Charlie cleared his throat, but the woman cut him off too.

“Do you have a niece?”

He was completely lost. Why did she care? Why hadn’t she singled anyone else out? Eventually he managed to say, “Yes… one,” in a small voice.

“Your brother’s child?”

“Y-yes.”

“Does he live?” Rowena leaned forward slightly, as if the answer was important. He couldn’t imagine why.

“No… he got tuberculosis. Before the war.” This seemed to be the right answer: Rowena’s expression suddenly became animated and all eyes in the room were wearily turned in his direction. He shifted uncomfortably. “Why?” he dared to add. She either did not hear, or chose to ignore it.

“You took the girl in,” she continued excitedly. He frowned.

“Margaret? No… She went to her mother’s sister, even before Arthur was ill. He couldn’t care for her, and I didn’t marry. Why would he have sent her to me?” Nothing was any clearer. “Has something happened to her?” Rowena shook her head impatiently, which didn’t give him much confidence.

“You’ve no other nieces… no other brothers?”

“No – please – why does it matter?” The weight of all the gazes falling on him was getting heavier. The woman looked uneasy and glanced towards the archway she had entered through.

“The rest of you will wait here,” she said, gesturing unnecessarily around the room before pinning him directly with a sharp stare. “You. Follow me.”

 

~oOo~

 

Tom had been looking forward to the holidays, and though there were more students remaining at Hogwarts than there had been in previous years, the library was still virtually always empty. There was also a drastic reduction in teacher supervision – Slughorn had even turned a blind eye to his personal curfew. As such, he was left undisturbed in his quest to solve the mystery of the Boudica card. How? When? Why? … Who?

The library contained very few references to the language of Parseltongue, and almost always in connection to Salazar Slytherin or his descendants. It was a startlingly rare ability. He had never heard or witnessed another person speaking to a snake; never heard a snake say that it had spoken with a human other than himself. And yet in this very castle not six months ago there had been somebody else with the gift.

Tom entertained the thought that there was another way into the Chamber which did not require the presence of a Parselmouth, but he couldn’t believe it. It had been protected in this fashion very deliberately, across two separate entrances, and the rest of the school believed its entire existence to be mythical. The idea that an unconnected person had found their way inside only to leave a chocolate frog card was incredulous. No: the answer to the question of how, as far as he could tell, involved a Parselmouth who had always known of the Chamber, and always kept it secret. Just as he himself was now keeping it secret.

The when was something he could be roughly more certain about, owing to a very fortunate change in chocolate frog design that he had traced back to approximately May. Given that he had noticed the snake stone on his first visit to the Chamber in September, he was left to conclude that the visitor had entered sometime over the summer. Presumably the castle had been almost empty, but he didn’t dare ask the portraits. They probably wouldn’t remember anyway.

The why followed naturally from the when, because he just knew that he had heard the voice of the basilisk last year. It had started him on the course of discovering the Chamber, and yet in more than three months he had seen no sign of it down there. No movement, no noise, no skin. Nothing. He had to assume that the snake was now in the little urn, because the coincidence was too great. And what was the alternative? That it really was Boudica, brought to this random location almost two thousand years after death? Surely not. But why would somebody kill the basilisk – or rather, why then? Perhaps it was already dead, and they simply buried it. Perhaps that wasn’t the part of the mystery that really mattered. It wasn’t the part that bothered him, at least.

Someone had entered the Chamber during the summer, cremated the basilisk and interred it in the wall along with an apparently unrelated piece of memorabilia. But who? He was no closer to answering that question at Christmas than he had been at Halloween, but he did have the beginnings of a plan. That was why – at five o’clock on Christmas eve, as they passed through the hidden archway in the dungeon corridor – he found himself saying,

“I need your help with something.” She stopped so abruptly on the staircase that he crashed right into her, the collision sending them both staggering into the wall.

“Pardon?” He was still half leaning on her and jumped backwards quickly, brushing himself off and sweeping past her by way of regaining some dignity.

“You heard.”

They were standing in the main chamber before she spoke again.

“So, what’s the problem? Stuck on your Charms essay?” He narrowed his eyes and tried to ignore the way her smile brightened her face. She had been in a mysteriously good mood recently, now he came to think about it.

“Hardly.” Now the moment had come, it was difficult to find the right words. “I need you to show me how to disappear. I know you do it. It’s the only explanation. I know all the passages through the castle and yet you still hide from me.” She considered him calmly for some time. He stared back, feeling oddly exposed.

“Are you saying that I’m better than you at something?”

“No! Well. Are you saying you do know how to disappear?” She grimaced slightly, evidently thinking that she should have lied rather than teased.

“It is the only explanation, really, isn’t it? Remarkable nobody else has noticed. Still, most people don’t notice anything.” He smirked.

“Show me, then.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“I can hurt you, if you don’t.”

“Seriously? You still think you can scare me? I thought you were clever.” He sent a quick hex her way but she blocked it as she always did, laughing. “You’re so predictable! It’s almost like you don’t even want to hurt me.” The silence lengthened as he cast around in alarm for something – anything – to say.

“I can show you how to hurt other people, then.” Perhaps her smile was a little sad, but he didn’t ponder it.

“I’m perfectly capable, thanks. I just don’t want to.” She coughed, and in a smaller voice added, “Very often.”

“Well... what do you want?”

“I –” There was a pause which became so tedious that he began to strongly regret starting the conversation. Surely there must have been another way, something that didn’t involve asking her?

“I want you to tell me exactly why you want to know.” He grimaced, because he had thought it might come to this.

“Why wouldn’t I want to know?”

“Oh, quite… only, you wouldn’t ask me for help unless it was really important. You wouldn’t do it just in general. You’d try and figure it out for yourself.” Though they spent hours together every day, and though in the privacy of his own mind he might even call her a friend, this situation felt like it were on another level again.

“That card,” he said, eventually, gesturing to the hole in the wall. “I want to know who put it there.”

“You’ve got an idea?”

“I want to find –” he hesitated for the final time, hating giving away the information and not really knowing why he was – “Marvolo. Marvolo Gaunt.”

“The man you’re named for?”

“My mother’s father. Another Parselmouth, maybe.” Hermione slowly nodded her understanding.

“That makes sense. Where is he?”

He removed his bag from his shoulder and withdrew a thick book. A Directory of Wizarding Families – the very first library book he had ever looked at, two and a half years ago. It fell open to a well-thumbed page.

“Marvolo Gaunt of Little Hangleton, Cornwall. That’s all it says.”

“Hmm. Well, that’s probably enough to go on, but how on earth are you going to get to Cornwall?”

“On the train.”

“What?”

“On the train. I’ll sneak out while I’m invisible. I’ll walk to the nearest station. Then I’ll get the train.”

“Hang on – hang on. You mean, the nearest station to here?”

“Yes, obviously. I can’t leave the orphanage over the summer, they’ll notice almost immediately and send Dumbledore.”

“You can’t be serious. This is complete madness! Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take you to get to Cornwall? It’s got to be at least a day each way!” He considered this for a moment.

“The Hogwarts Express gets to London in six hours.”

“Well, yes, but it’s magical! It doesn’t have to stop at any other stations, and you know when it’s going to leave. Where are you going to get a muggle rail timetable from? How are you even going to find the nearest station? You’ll sneak out – after curfew, I assume – and walk out there in the snow all night and freeze to death. And even if you don’t, you’ll get expelled. There’s got to be a better way.” He couldn’t recall seeing her like this before. It was too disconcerting to make him angry, so he just stayed silent.

“How did Dumbledore find you?” she asked, eventually, with a pensive expression.

“I don’t know, he just appeared, like he does.”

“But did he know where you were going?”

“Probably Mrs Cole told him the town,” he conceded.

“Then it will be different next time. He won’t know where to start, will he? It’s a lot harder to find anything when it’s further away. Besides, you don’t really think he’s not going to notice when we’re gone from Hogwarts for several days?”

“What did you just say?”

“What? I said… ‘I think he’s going to notice if we just leave Hogwarts for several days’.”

“We?”

“Well, I’m hardly going to let you go by yourself, am I?”

“Let me?!”

“Oh, come on. We’ll have a much better chance if we stick together, and we’ll have plenty of time to plan. If we’re lucky, we might not even get expelled. I’d like a summer holiday in Cornwall. We can go to the beach. What d’you reckon?”

Once again, he was completely stuck for something to say. The word beach was flashing rapidly across his brain, and Hermione was smiling at him with a sense of excitement he couldn’t quite understand. The moment was entirely surreal: he wondered if he was imagining it.

“Erm – al-alright.”

 

~oOo~

 

Pride, satisfaction and, yes, jealousy – these were the feelings he experienced as he watched her arms lengthen and hit the floor, her clothing turn to smooth black skin and her back sprout strong wings.

“I knew you could do it!” She gave a kind of snort, almost certainly by accident, and then looked down at herself. Seeing that this was not very easy, he conjured a mirror to allow her a better view. A thestral! He had thought as much since that day in the summer with Polaris’ foal; had taken that hunch and put the image in her mind. Hadn’t expected it to work so quickly.

Hermione-the-thestral stamped her front feet, flicked her whip-like tail and furled and unfurled her wings several times, her expression full of excitement.

Now that the last goal of Christmas Eve had been achieved, the exhaustion caught up to him all at once. Long days traipsing over half of Africa following herds of erumpent and tracking sphinxes; fact finding missions into muggle towns, discovering festive traditions; early evenings writing ridiculous Elf-related puns to the tune of carols; late evenings getting considerably more… exercise… than he was recently accustomed to. Not that he was complaining about any of that, especially the last part. And she had appreciated it, hadn’t she?

He was keeping busy to avoid thinking about the future – that much he could admit. To avoid thinking about the way she had said the words, I’m nothing to you, or I’ll always feel stupid, or worst of all, somehow, you’re the only person who knows me. Because thinking about it would draw him again and again to the inevitable conclusion that she could never love him, or see him as an equal – or even as a man – and that her presence in his bed was therefore merely a pleasant consequence of the fact that he had taken her away from everyone she would have voluntarily chosen to be with. Everyone she could truly relate to. Of course she would never fully be able to forgive him for that. Why should she? He wouldn’t, if it were the other way around. No wonder she spent so much time with the Riddle boy.

Something solid connected with his upper arm. Snapping back to reality, he saw that it was her beak. He gave it an awkward pat.

“How does it feel?” he asked, in thestral, but she looked blankly back at him. When she tried to say something, all that came out was a sort of whine. He smiled.

“Seems as though I still beat you at speaking thestral, then. Tough luck.” She stamped a hoof petulantly and gave him a harder tap on the arm with her beak. It was surprisingly painful.

“I think we ought to change you back now, before you get too tired. It might take some effort.”

He helped her to shift, and took her to bed, and let the festive spirit ward off the melancholy that was always threatening to creep in.

Younger Salazar watched the lights extinguish in the courtyard before peeling himself away from the window seat. His patience, such as it had ever been, had well and truly run out.

 

~oOo~


End file.
